Wander in Winter
by PaxRoman
Summary: Two years after POTO, a young chorus girl with no home other than L'Opera is recruited in the corps de ballet. However, her fate takes a new path when she settles in a small, vacant dressing room; a dressing room that once belonged to Mlle. Daaé.. ErikOC
1. Prologue

_It has been nearly two years since the disastrous events 1881 brought to the Opera Populairé. Now under new management, the theater begins to recruit a fresh cast, including a young chorus girl who has no home other than L'Opera. However, her fate takes a different path when she settles in a small, vacant dressing room; a dressing room that once belonged to a Mlle. Daaé… _

I'm _baaaack_!! This is a 'phic' half created by request and have created from the author's pervy fantasies.. ((O))

All of the readers from "Of the Wicca"-

I'm still trying to come up with the next chapter!! GAH! I absolutely hate this kind of writer's block! I have the story completely worked out, but I can't seem to come up with a way smoothly form these next few chapters! I'm trying! Don't hate me!

And now, on with the show! Hope you like!

Pax

* * *

Rain fell steadily, pattering on the muddy street the lay before the formally grand Opera Populairé. For the past three days, there has been always a constant spell of rain pouring from the cumbersome gathering of dark grey clouds over head, casting a most dreary and grim atmosphere over the city. As for the theater itself, the late autumn downpour only intensified the air of bleakness that had situated about the building since its last catastrophic performance, near two years previous.

MM. Amaud and Garnier sat in their office, the latter peering through the curtains with an expression on his face that clearly expressed his bête-noir for the situation. M. Garnier's face was similar in build to that of a bloodhound, long and slender with pale, sad eyes and a droopy grey mustache that was trimmed with the utmost precision. M. Amaud also boasted a mustache, although it was thick and bushy, and he himself was quite the opposite to that of his colleague, having round and naturally ruddy cheeks as well as a small, pointed beard upon his chin.

This rather peculiar pair were none other than the successors to MM. Moncharmin and Richard, the previous managers of L'Opera. The stated two gentlemen had taken their permanent leave after the wretched events involving the Vicomte de Chagny, the soprano Christine Daaé, and, as the rumors had it, the Opera Ghost himself.

Of course neither MM. Amaud or Garnier, being the upstanding and educated men they were, believed that a phantom had truly played a role in the Daaé's disappearances nor the death of the Comte de Chagny. However, whatever had occurred behind the stage and in the dark cellars of the opera house had left the establishment in a state of complete disorder and eventual abandonment by both the cast and the public.

All such business, now, had long sense past, and in M. Garnier's keen, industrious mind, to ignore a profitable factor like the Opera house was nothing if not criminal. And so the good Monsieur sought about the purchase from its previous owners with his business partner Amaud. Negotiations and meetings with the previous managers transpired, and not two months ago the ownership of the mighty Opera Populairé was passed into their hands.

Garnier, feeling thoroughly dejected from his solemn gazing out the window, made his way across the room to the desk where Amaud sat busily perusing a stack of papers.

"All this rain," he began in his low, drawling voice, resting a hand on the smooth mahogany table top, "it makes one feel quite dismal."

"Indeed," replied his small partner, flipping through the sheets with vivacity.

Feeling bored, Garnier picked up a form in his long fingers and squinted at it. On the paper was a list of dancers and vocalists, fifty seven in all, who had past the mandatory auditions. His new dramatis personae.

"Have the preparations for the Ball begun?"

"Yes, Garnier. I organized a committee just this morning."

"Very good. Then all there is left to do is choose a production and a date, I suppose?"

"I would say as much!" replied Amaud cheerfully.

Garnier nodded once, and, with a sigh, he set the page back where he had found it, and returned to his vigilance at the windowpane.

Meanwhile, on the grand staircase the led up to the front doors, a forlorn and sodden individual paused halfway in her assent, eyes raising and narrowing against the rain to silently observe L'Opera. Although she wore a tattered cloak, it now provided no defense against the weather, so utterly soaked as it was, but she could not yet take her gaze from the prodigious structure, however formidable it seemed on that stormy day.

Shaking the water from her pale face, the child continued to climb the flight of stairs, towards the shelter of L'Opera.

* * *

If anyone wants my character descriptions (including age, hair/eyes, background, "type of Erik" ., and so on) drop me a line in the review section (and a review, perhaps?) and I'll crank them out before the next chapter.

Pax


	2. Fille de Choeur

I've had this sucker on my computer for weeks... but couldn't think of a good ending... I came up with this semi-lame conclusion three seconds ago and here it is! Enjoy-

Pax

* * *

It had been a difficult task to recruit new performers for L'Opera, for it was common knowledge that many of the finest had been employed under MM. Moncharmin and Richard. One can only expect that after an affair of that nature few would be willing to return, and such was the case at hand. Rumors told that L'Opera was haunted by the shade of not only Buquet, but the Concierge and Piangi as well. 

However, one pair of veterans to L'Opera, namely Mlle. Meg Giry and her mother, waved the gossip aside and requested readmission into the cast. The new managers, having heard of both the young ballerina and her matriarch, welcomed them immediately. Mme. Giry resumed her role as ballet mistress and Meg, at once determined to be the most accomplished dancer in the corps, reclaimed her spot at the head of the row.

And it was on this same rainy day that young Giry marched down the corridor backstage, her golden head 1 held high. After all, she, being now nearly twenty, was the best dancer in the establishment and had become a leader and icon to the band of giggling ballet-girls, much as Sorelli once was. Two of them came trotting down the hall now even as Meg approached, and she recognized them. The first, Alice, with a small mousy face covered by chocolate colored hair in tight ringlets, spotted her row leader and scampered forward, clutching her small hands together.

"Oh! Oh! Have you heard!?" she cried, hardly able to contain herself , "Please say no, for it would be such a delight to tell someone first hand!"

Placing her hands on her hips, Meg endeavored to appease the child and at the same time discover her information.

"Calm yourself! What's this news that has you so excited?" She, silently of course, took pride in her cleverness, and waited for the answer. Lucille, the second girl, bouncing in her little pointe shoes, said,

"The managers have just hired a new chorus girl! Oh, you ought to have been their, Meg, for she had simply the loveliest voice!"

Young Giry frowned.

"And how is it the pair of you have heard her voice? Are the auditions not held privately with the managers?" Ignoring the guilty faces, she continued, "Besides, the auditions are done and over with! MM. Garnier and Amaud have finished hiring."

At this point neither girl could suppress the urge to explain and both began speaking at once.

"Yes, but she had such a pleasant singing voice-!"

"You should have heard her! It was wonderful-!"

"The managers couldn't refuse such a talent! They hired her straight away-!"

"I heard she was the orphaned daughter of a German duke! How could they turn down royalty?"

"A German duke? Where on earth did you hear that?!"

"David Sauvage, the scene shifter, told me!"

Meg decided at this point to take her leave, and left the brats to squabble over conflicting rumors. She, however, had made up her mind to seek out a more reliable source: her mother. Should a member have been added to the chorus, no one would know the truth better than Mme Giry.

Through the twisting corridors of the backstage and dormitories she went, brushing past the other dancers and help, pausing only once to inquire after the elder Giry, whom she was told was in the auditorium. Upon reaching the grand stage, Meg was surprised to find not only the ballet mistress, but also a damp, little creature in an old grey cloak and brown scarf. Mme. Giry looked up when her child approached and beckoned.

"This is Meg Giry, my daughter," she told the young lady, pointing with her cane. Tilting her head toward her companion, she said to the younger Giry, "Marie de Voisins. The managers took her on last minute for the corps."

The girl followed the aim of the stick and cast her great eyes onto Meg. She was a small individual with an overall look of fragileness about her skinny, young body. The skin, stretched over poor little bones, was lily white and although it was clear she held the potential to be a lovely child, there was currently an undernourished pinch to her cheeks that made her appear more cheerless and tired than her large grey eyes already expressed.

Marie nodded politely and gave a small curtsey, recognizing the elder girl's superiority in ranks to herself. Placing a hand on the child's lean shoulder, Mme. Giry said,

"She is to take up residence in the old dressing room on the west side of the Opera… the one beside the old stairwell."

Meg rose her gaze abruptly to her mother, who returned a knowing look. Marie appeared to notice the silent exchange, but said nothing.

"Would you show her the way?" Mme. Giry gave the child a small nudge towards Meg with her cane. Picking up a tattered carpetbag, she curtseyed to elder Giry and followed the younger. Neither spoke at first. Meg watched the new chorus girl curiously from the corner of her eye, and felt a surge of pity as she took in the weariness and sad eyes. In an effort to lighten her mood, she endeavored a simple conversation.

"Are you from Paris?

Marie seemed surprised upon receiving the question, but managed to answer in a soft voice.

"No, mademoiselle. I come from Lisieux, in the west."

"Had you ever been to this part of the country before?"

"No, mademoiselle. This is the first time."

"And how old are you?"

"Seventeen, mademoiselle."

At this her companion was taken aback. This little sack of bones was seventeen? Considering her general size, Meg wouldn't have guessed her over fifteen. Studying Marie more carefully as the new dancer used one hand to push her long, dark curls over her shoulder, young Giry realized that the creature had a feminine delicacy about her neck and shoulders and a gracefulness to how she moved (a clear sign of a worthy ballerina-to-be) that a child could not have possessed. Meg smiled. That made Marie second closest in age to Meg in the corps, and a worthy comrade.

Even as the thought crossed her mind, Meg felt a sadness come over her. After all, the last time she'd had a true friend had been two years ago. Before tales of terror became reality in L'Opera. Before a creature of darkness emerged from the shadows. Before _He_ came…

"Mademoiselle?"

Startled, Meg looked up. At some point during her reflection, she had ceased to walk and now stood silently in the middle of the vast hallway. Marie was standing before her, a look of confusion and concern in her huge eyes.

"Are you alright?" she reached out as if to touch Meg's arm, but stopped midway and dropped her hand back to her side.

"Yes… yes, I'm fine. Forgive me, I lost myself in my thoughts."

Marie nodded faintly. The rest of the journey was made without conversation. When the reached the old dressing room, Meg found the key and, making an effort to maintain a steady hand, opened the door.

The room had not been visited since the performance of Don Juan Triumphant, and in the space of time had collected a thick coat of dust. However, once cleaned, it would appear just as it had two years ago, back when its occupant had been the new diva.

Meg lingered in the doorway, not feeling entirely comfortable with entering the room just yet. Marie stepped over the threshold, eyes taking in her musty home emotionlessly.

"Should you need anything, you can find me in the ballet dormitories…" Giry said softly, moving away from the door. There was a small pause, and then the faint voice from inside replied.

"Thank you, mademoiselle."

* * *

1 In the Leroux novel Meg is said to have dark hair, but I've become so attached to blonde Megs over the years that in my mind she does have golden hair... 

P.S.  
For all the bookie fans out there, you've probably noticed where I completely quoted and ripped off Leroux and for that I apologize. The words were too perfect to be true, and I couldn't help myself. For those of you who haven't read the book, I didn't do anything. I swear. I don't know _what_ they're talking about... ;D

Pax


	3. Ange Tombé

Woo-hoo! Two chapters in as many days!! _I'm on a roll!! _ I HATE THE GOLDEN GLOBES!!** THEY _SUCK_**!!!

By the way, when I decribed my OC's character to have "long dark curls", I don't mean to the extreme that the Joel Schumacher Christine did. I'm thinking moreso Elizabeth in _Pirates of the Caribbean_ curly, not Emmy Rossum curly.

Here's a link for the three people in this site who haven't seen _Pirates_

Much love-

Pax

* * *

My mind was blank. I could not begin to fathom how I hated this feeling, this nothingness in my head. From the very beginning of my wretched existence on this earth, there had always been something to ponder, something to roll about in my repugnant skull. But now, in the dark and dankness of my underground tomb, I could think of naught. 

This sickness had plagued me incessantly over the past two years. From the time when Christine Daaé left my home with her beloved Vicomte, I had suffered. Since that moment, when she left me to rot. I had written no music; _scores_, yes, but not _music_. I no longer lived. I only existed.

The harshness of reality closed in around me with every passing day. Darkness smothered my lungs and heart. Loneliness, anger, fear, and despair fought and twisted inside me, ripping my body apart. Nothing would, or could, appease.

Slowly, I was dying.

Never will I be able to explain what possessed me to return to her dressing room. I could not pin it to curiousity, because I was not curious. I could not pin it to love, because love no longer lived within me. I could not pin it to hate, for I did not hate her. It was purely an animal instinct. I held no control over my actions. I had to revisit the room where I had first seen her.

I drifted blindly through the long untraveled passages, my legs remembering the way. She had once followed me through these paths, her small hand in mine…

The mirror was at the end of this hall. I approached it as silently as ever, but now with a growing sense of dread building in my stomach. _I could not do this. I could not face the past._ _It would kill me. It tear me apart like a wild thing_. Yet even as these thoughts raced one another across the expanse of my brain, I reached what to me was a window. Standing before the glass, my eyes absorbed the sight offered to me.

The room was not empty. The door stood open, letting in rays of dull light. A woman was on the threshold. By God, this must have been Little Meg Giry, no longer a shivering ballet rat, but full grown and in her dancing attire. She was taking after her mother, I noticed, observing the similar brow line and firm mouth.

But it was not Meg Giry that held my attention. Standing beside the vanity, which was liberally covered with dust, was a frail young woman. In my befuddled and aging mind, I thought for a moment it was Christine. _She has returned to me! _The delusion was short lived, however, for I quickly realized this child was quite different and the only factor of resemblance between Mlle. Daaé and herself was the color of her hair. _That glorious shade of deep russet_…

"Should you need anything, you can find me in the ballet dormitories…"

It was young Giry who spoke, shrinking away from the entryway and taking her leave. I watched the now only occupant of the old dressing room. She stood perfectly still, like an delicate marble carving. Then she spoke, her voice soft and sad.

"Thank you, mademoiselle."

The door closed with a subdued click. Pure and complete silence reigned for many minutes. Neither the shadow hidden by a sheet of thick glass, nor the fragile creature who thought herself quite alone made any movement. I continued to examine the girl. Her eyes were too big for her starved, little face. But what drew me to them, despite their size, was the emotions that lay in their grey depths. Never had I seen such sorrow in the countenance of one so young. It wrenched and twisted my heart to the point where I almost forgot my own woe.

_Almost._

Suddenly, she stepped across the room and placed her tattered carpetbag on the récamier and removed her cloak. Underneath she wore a very worn skirt and bodice with a pattern in faded brown. The dress was too short even for her small frame, and the hem failed to conceal her sturdy boots and thin black stockings. Clearly money was not an attribute she came by easily.

For hours I remained behind the mirror, watching this nameless child. She found some kindling in the wood crate and a tinder box beside the fireplace and soon cackling flames sent dancing shadows onto the walls. After digging through the drawers and closets, she came upon several moth-eaten rags which had perhaps in another lifetime been handkerchiefs. She used them to clean the filth which years of neglect had placed upon the room, her little hands polishing each surface diligently. My eyes followed her as she found an old hat box and crafted it into a trash bin, filling it with yellowed papers, dead flowers, and cleaning rags that she could use no more.

In time, the space had began to look more like a comfortable domicile than a cold, abandoned dressing room. The child stood in the middle of the floor and slowly turned, surveying her work with fatigue. Her great eyes paused when they came upon the vanity, now spotless. She hesitated, then went to it, her fingers sliding over the smooth mahogany to a very withered red rose with a black satin ribbon tied about the stem.

My heart stopped. Time seemed to lengthen as she picked up the wilted blossom and gently stroked the petals with the pads of her fingers. I lost the knowledge of who I was looking at. The past seized my mind; the child merged seamlessly with Christine. She grew taller and rosy cheeked, the curl of her hair increased; the illusion faded and then returned only to disappear once again. _Oh, Christine_…

I stumbled. Moreover, I suppose, my knees gave way, sending me into the cold stone wall with a thud. I cursed my weakening body and glanced back through the glass. Had she heard? It seemed she taken at least some notice to my racket, for she cast her large eyes upon the mirror, upon _me_, so it appeared. Placing the dead rose back on the table, the girl slowly came towards my hiding place still blissfully oblivious, of course, to what it concealed. She now stood directly before me; I marveled at her elegance, for one so small and slight. Carefully she rose one white hand to the glass, stroking its flawless surface delicately. An urge grew inside me. _She would never know… no one would ever know_…

Very cautiously, I lifted my own trembling, bony hand and placed it upon hers. I only felt the cool mirror beneath my fingers, but somehow I imagined I could feel the warmth of her dainty palm on mine. A shudder ran across my flesh. How long had it been since I had touched another human? Starting at her soft sigh, I felt a swell of disappointment when she drew back her hand and moved away. I suddenly longed to know her name. It would not be a difficult task to discover it, not, indeed, for the Opera Ghost. _Perhaps I should take up my previous post in the theater…_

Spreading an afghan over the récamier she sat and removed her boots, setting them neatly on the floor. Then, pulling a frayed and threadbare old quilt from her bag, she curled herself into a ball under it and closed her great eyes. _Surely she did not mean to sleep in her dress?... _I thought derisively, frowning. _Think of the state of that gown in the morning!_ Just as I'd had the thought, however, my gaze returned to her carpetbag, which appeared quite empty.

A combination of pity and shame descended upon me. It now occurred to me that she may not even own a second frock, let alone a nightdress. As the candle burned down to the wick, I stood and watched the child sleep, the peaceful slumber of an angel. Indeed as she slept and the lines and shadows of exhaustion disappeared, I felt that I was God minding one of his little cherubs.

A thought began to materialize in some dark recess of my mind, and I hastily pushed it back. _It can not be… I must not make the same mistake twice…_ Yet even as I fought, the notion refused to be ignored. _She needs me… _Casting my eyes away from the girl, I gripped the unmasked side of my face in a hand. _I thought Christine needed me… _I turned and took several steps down the lightless hall. _Christine had her Vicomte. There is no one to take this girl away… _I stopped, and slowly turned my head back in the direction of the mirror. _She has no one…_ I moved silently back to the glass. _She needs me?..._ Her face seemed to plead, to beg for my help. I thought of her large, unhappy eyes. _I could make those eye shine with joy…_

Making a soft sound in her throat, she turned towards me in her sleep and smiled lightly. My heart pounded and fluttered in my chest. And then I was gone, scuttling, like a spider, back to my lair.

* * *

Do you like how I made Erik go all Gollum/Smeagol?! SCHIZO SCENE!!! 


	4. Chaussures de Pointe et Cadeaux

The Reason Behind the Delay of This Chapter:

Me + Finals Weeks + Weeks of Stress Leading Up To The Actually Tests AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA  
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!

;D

I just notice that the link to the pic didn't work last time, so I'll try and post it in my bio!

Love you all-

Pax

* * *

The passages behind the stage were ominous and dark. I was not usually afraid of being alone in the shadows; however, a small shiver rolled up and down my spine as I stole, as quietly as I could manage, down the empty halls. A sense of uneasiness had trailed after me since I had left the safety of the stage ten minutes before. Although I believed myself rather childish to think of such things, I felt strangely as though I was being watched by a pair of unseen eyes. 

I had awoken this morning, feeling refreshed and a great deal less tired than I had in many a month. The aches in my legs and back had faded overnight, to be replaced by only a dull throb when I walked. It was a wonder what a single night in a warm bed could do for sore bones.

Glancing down, I admired the light pink pointe shoes, each with a matching ribbon, that I wore on my feet. They had once belonged to Meg Giry, but, as she had told me, she had hardly used them.

"I bought those about three years ago," the dancer had said this morning as she pulled the flats from her trunk in the ballet dormitory, "but my feet grew too big for them and I needed a new pair before I'd finished with them."

Meg extended her hand and their burden, and I silently excepted watching as she flipped a strand of lovely, yellow hair over her shoulder and continued to dig through the chest. My heart gave a slight pang of envy; I should have greatly wished to have blonde hair.

"Ah! Here it is!"

I awoke from my reverie as a mass of white fabric was thrust under my nose.

"Voilà! It fits you perfectly!"

And that too was cast into my arms. Shifting the pointe shoes into the crook of my elbow, I used my hands to hold up the frock. It was a dancer's garment complete with a fine muslin skirt and bodice. Meg smiled and placed her hands on her hips.

"You'll be a coryphée in no time. You do sing, don't you? I heard you were very good."

I felt my cheeks burn, and had opened my mouth to deflect the praise, and also to ask what exactly a "coryphée" was, when I noticed movement out of the corner of my vision. Turning, I saw Mme. Giry, the ballet mistress, standing in the doorway, cane in hand. She was a very imposing woman, demanding one's respect without saying so much as a word, and I could not deny that I was a bit frightened of the stick she carried.

"Do those fit, then?" She asked, her voice brusque.

Realizing that I had quite forgotten my manners, I quickly sank into a curtsey, lowering my head to hide my glowing features.

"You needn't bow," she said, the tone of her words softening, "We're all family in the corps."

I straightened, feeling unsure what to do. Mme. Giry's sharp eyes fell onto the pile in my hands.

"Put those on. Meg will help you," Placing a hand on the door frame, she looked back at her daughter, "Come to the stage when you've finished."

After the elder Giry quit the room, Meg turned to me.

"Take off your boots. I'll help you with the dress."

It was a strange thing having someone to assist me with dressing. Yet, I could not honestly say that it didn't make the process move faster and much easier. Soon I stood in nothing more then my chemise and corset; both wore very tatty and I felt a small surge of embarrassment. Meg, however, either took no notice or simply chose not to, for which I was thankful.

"I'm going to have to tighten this." She told me hesitantly, referring to my corset. I nodded, support my weight on a bed post.

"I ought to have made it tighter this morning," I said softly, "but it's kind of… what I mean is tying it by… well, by yourself can be a little awkward…"

I felt her undo the knot at the bottom and she gave the laces a small but firm tug. I took a deep breath, held it, and closed my eyes. When she reached the ties midway down my back, Meg spoke.

"If you'd like I could come in the morning and give you a hand…"

I peeked over my shoulder. She looked up and smiled, before administering another yank to the strings. I gasped faintly and winced.

"Tell me if it's too tight. I don't want you fainting on me…"

Quirking the corner of my mouth and shook my head.

"It's fine. And…and it'd be nice if you would tie it for me… but only if you have time… and only if you want to…"

Meg fixed the laces together at the bottom of the corset and held the dress out to me, eyes sparkling.

"I'd be glad to."

I paused for a moment, then the muscles on my face curved, straining from disuse, into a smile.

Apparently, I had found a friend in Meg Giry.

* * *

A cool draft swirled about my bare legs. I shivered and hurried down the corridor, spotting my room at the end. I was absolutely exhausted. After getting dressed, Meg and I had gone to meet with Mme. Giry, and the pair of them had spent the greater part of the afternoon teaching me the basic ballet movements I would need to remember as a dancer. 

_Demi plié, __grande jeté__, grande plié__, arebesque__, tondue__…_

I ran over what I learned as I closed the door behind me, and leaned against it with a sigh. When Mme. Giry had felt I'd done enough for one day, she had placed one hand on my shoulder and the other under my chin.

"You did very well today." she told me, "You are on your way to becoming a great dancer, Marie de Voisins."

Then she patted my cheek gently and, flipping her long braid over one shoulder, she turned and pointed me in the direction of the dormitories with her cane.

"Go and find Meg. She will get you something to eat."

I had paused and looked nervously up at the ballet mistress.

"With all do respect, Madame…" I said, "I would like to simply go back to my room and rest."

Mme. Giry watched me for a moment with prying eyes. Then she nodded, straightening her brooch absently.

"Whatever you like." Was all she had said.

Opening my eyes, I noticed for the first time since I had entered the room that the fire was blazing in the hearth. Frowning slightly, I moved forward and gazed at the dancing flames. It had been over five hours; how could they still burning? Feeling too tired to really mind, I moved to sit, but again froze.

On the sofa where I had slept last night there was a small pile that was not mine. Looking around but seeing no one I reached down. There were two pale blue pillows, stacked neatly, resting beside a large, white blanket; I grasped the latter in my trembling hand, and silently marveled at how soft and heavy. It would surely be very warm. Gently placing it back, I took hold of one of the cushions and let out a small sigh of delight. It was made a gloriously smooth material, like woven water. I brought it up to my cheek; it felt wonderfully sleek and cool against my skin and smelled faintly of a flower I couldn't place.

Sitting heavily beside the blanket, I noticed something white fall to the floor. Removing the pillow from my face, I saw that it was a nightdress, and I bent to pick it up. It was not made of the same glossy fabric as the cushions, but of soft cotton. _At last something I recognize…_ I thought dully. It had short sleeves, lined with delicate lace and the neck line was interwoven with a small, pink ribbon.

Tears pricked my eyes as I gazed dumbly at the gown. Who had done this? And why? Standing, I looked about for a note but found none. Could it have been Meg? No, she and her mother had been with me all afternoon. And besides, why would they secretly leave things for me in my room? Who else could it have been? The managers perhaps? M. Garnier or M. Amaud? The first I ruled out; he was entirely too businesslike, but M. Amaud? He was kindly enough… but I'd hardly met him!

Feeling a bout of dizziness come over me, I sat again. There had been no note; maybe whoever left these wished to remain a secret? Pleasure bubbled in my stomach and a small smile broke over my face. _Whoever they were they had made me very happy_.

* * *

I had spent the better half of the night digging through the masses of objects, both strange and common, that I had acquired over the years of my life. _There must be something here that would please her…_ And when I came upon a pair of silken pillows and an old goose-down eiderdown, stored with a sachet of lavender I immediately knew they would do. 

Just after dawn, I slipped, quiet as a shadow, from L'Opera and into the city. I found tasteful shop, quickly bartered with the tailor and before the rest of the Parisian world stirred in their beds I was creeping back through the Rue Scribe entrance, a parcel under my arm. I paused only for a moment to gather my things and then was off again through the hidden passageways of the cellars.

The dear little thing had awaken in late morning, an easy three hours after I settled behind the mirror. She had blinked sweetly and stretched, then settled back as if to sleep once more, but a knock had come upon the door. It was young Giry and the pair of them left, after a moment, for the ballet dormitories.

The mechanism that opened the mirror was rusty from disuse; _I would have to oil it._ Lingering on the threshold for moment, I took a deep, cleansing breath, then entered the room for the first time in years. It was not as painful as I thought it might have been, but I could not deny I felt something surge inside my abdomen. _Perhaps I should not be doing this…_ My thoughts, however, then returned to the sleepy face, framed by soft curls, that had greeted me ten minutes prior and I continued as planned, setting the pillows neatly on the récamier and placing the eiderdown beside them. I unwrapped the parcel, and took out the dainty nightdress I had purchased that morning, holding it out and admiring my choice. It was made of soft, finely woven cotton, the cap sleeves and portrait neckline framed with delicately beaded organza lace; the final touch was the pink, satin ribbon threaded through the collar.

Nodding, and feeling thoroughly pleased with the selection, I folded it and put it on top of the eiderdown. Then, after placing another log on the fire, I moved back through the mirror. _Now, where was the path to the ballet dormitories?..._

* * *

Erik! You peeping tom! XD Feedback? 


	5. Votre Chemin

Ok, I really have an excuse! I had finals for a week, and then I got really sick. Like, mofoing sick. Like flippin' bedridden sick. Like "no fun at all" sick.

Anyway, I'm pretty much better now, and I'm trying desperately to catch up! Don't hate meeeeeeeee!

BTW, the song, _Vois sur ton chemin (Look to your path)_, is from the "Les Choristes" soundtrack (lovely movie... I reccomend it...) . I altered it in some places so that works better... just little things like "give** them** a hand" to "give **her** a hand", so that it fit in better with the story...

Smoochie-poos por vous!

Pax

* * *

Marie de Voisins. That is what she was called. Her name. I followed her with my eyes as she trotted down the hall Before she had left the stage, Mme. Giry, the dear old crone had uttered the words that now rang in my mind._ Marie de Voisins_. It suited her perfectly. Letting it escape my mouth in a whisper no ears aside from my own could hear, I delighted in how it rolled off my tongue. It was a delicate, graceful forename, ideal for such a creature as she was. _Marie de Voisins._

Anticipation began to churn inside me as she opened the door. I stood a hair's distance away from the mirror… _What would she think?_ The turn of her countenance when she first saw my gifts I shall never forget. A kind of dazed bewilderment, softened by the daintiness of her features; her gaze had appeared hesitant and perplexed. My heart stood still. _Did she dislike my offerings?_ Breath tore from my lungs. _It had been a foolish idea…_

But then she sat heavily. And she smiled. Her eyes sparkled with delight.

_**I could make those eye shine with joy…**_

And I had. I had made her happy. I, Erik, had brought cheerfulness to the soul Marie de Voisins. I, Erik, had made her smile. How had I ever, for one moment, thought this unwise? Tears blurred my vision, and they fell unheeded over cold cheeks. I watched as she held up the nightdress, crying silently even as she smiled. What would her tears _taste_ like? I yearned to know. Like salt, of course, but what else? Would they be sweet, as well as brackish? How would they _feel_ as they were captured on my tongue?

A shudder ran through my body. I must not think of her as such. _I must not think of **Marie** as such._ She was too pure, too young, to become an object of fixation to a hideous, old beast. Yet as I beheld her as she crossed the room, curls (lately tied with a broad ribbon) falling in sharp divergence to the cream of her skin, the tarlatan bodice hugging her slim body, her face and its smooth, feminine visage…

No. No! I will not let myself see her through such wanton eyes. Turning from the mirror, I took a moment and collected my scattered thoughts. _I would be her Angel. That is **all** I would be._

She disappeared behind the changing screen (God, it seemed, had taken some pity on my labored nerves) and reemerged in my gift. I sank to my knees, one trembling hand reaching to touch the glass. She looked like an angel; _a perfect, bright eyed, little angel_. More tears sprang forth as she observed herself almost shyly in the mirror.

_Do you approve, Erik? _I imagined her say to me, in a voice eager and bashful.

_You are exquisite, my child_, I silently replied.

Bringing the candle to her bedside, Marie, after pressing the blanket to her nose once more (_she was fond of the scent of lavender… I shall remember that_), settled herself deeply within the nest of fine material, blowing out the flame with a short puff of breath.

But she did not sleep. I sat and watched as she gazed forward into the dying embers of the fireplace for near an hour. _What could the little thing be thinking of? She needs sleep; there will be training in the morning._

She rolled onto her back, then returned to her side, but sleep never took her. My eyes, quite accustomed to the dark, flickered now and then to the time piece. _Ten thirty, eleven o'clock, eleven fifteen… _Marie, who also seemed to know she ought to be asleep, fretted and sighed, closing her eyes only to open them again soon after.

I frowned and wondered what I might do to help the sweet creature. Then I suddenly recollected where _I _was, where _she_ was. A smile, both serene and grim crossed my lips. I gazed at Marie for a short moment, and then I began to sing.

_Vois sur ton chemin. Enfant oubliés égarés…_

She looked up, startled by the sudden entrance of my voice. Her pale brow became worried as she looked about, seeking the source of the song.

_Donne elle la main, pour la mener vers d'autres lendemains…_

Marie, having discovered no one, shrank into the safety of her little bed, the large, grey eyes raised in silently question to the heavens.

_Sens au cœur de la nuit…_

She rested her darling head back upon the pillows. Her eyelids looked heavy. I added a further degree of melodiousness to my tone.

_L'onde d'espoir, ardeur de la vie…_

I watched affectionately as my dear Marie began to doze, mollified by my song.

_Sentier de gloire…_

I stood. Her breath was soft and steady. There was nothing quite so beautiful, I thought, then Marie de Voisins as she slept. Becoming bold, I silently opened the mirror and stole through to her bedside. Long, dark eyelashes brushed her cheek. How I longed to be one of their company, to be with her all the day long, to graze her skin with each blink.

I remembered first seeing her through the mirror; raising my hand to touch hers through the glass. My gaze dropped to the coveted item, resting upon the pillow beside her head. _I had made it this far…_ Very, very carefully, I reached forward and stroked the length of her outer palm, from knuckles to wrist, with a finger. I smiled, feeling deliriously happy, then darted away. _She would never know._

* * *

"Places! Everyone get in your place! Adèle! Lucille! Get in your places _now_!" 

The said girls squeaked and scampered into position.

"Now, if you please, M. Bonnaire?"

The threads of music began, and the corps de ballet followed suit. I felt a surge of excitement flare inside me; this would be my very first real show at L'Opera, and although I had not been cast in a singing role (much, I think, to Mme. and Meg Giry's irritation) I was nonetheless overjoyed. They had taught me a great deal of ballet in the past two months since my arrival; I had recently been promoted to third in my row.

I ceased my thoughts and concentrated solely on my dancing. This was the dry run, after all, and I needed to concentrate.

The dance ended with the musical finale, and Mme. Giry appeared from the left wing.

"Very good, girls. Adèle, you do not follow the rest of the group! You must learn to dance correctly or I'll see to your expulsion from the corps! Meg, demonstrate how one ought to move. Marie, you as well."

I nodded, anxious over the crowd of eyes that watched as I came forward to the younger Giry's side. Adèle looked shamefaced and irritated. Mme. Giry flipped her long braid over he shoulder, pointing to Meg and I with her cane.

"On the count."

I glanced up at Meg; she stood straight backed and confident (as she should, leader of the row as she was!). She met my gaze quickly, and smiled. I felt better; she thought I would do well.

"One, two, and three!"

We leapt into action. I forgot the eyes, forgot Adèle, forgot Mme. Giry. All I thought of was Meg and myself, focused as I had never been. Time raced and suddenly were reached the finish, a grande jetè, an arabesque… _please, legs, don't tip!_... and it was over.

There was a smattering of light applause.

"Well done! Very well done!"

It was a man's voice who spoke, not Mme. Giry. I turned, panting, and recognized M. Amaud. A flush broke over my face; I curtsied, remembering my manners.

"Mme. Giry, that was perfectly executed! My sincerest compliments."

He received a curt nod in response, nothing more. Still smiling broadly, Amaud turned back to Meg and I.

"You are Mlle. Giry, am I right? You live up to your position, my dear." His bright eyes fell on me, and I blushed harder; he would not know who I am, of course, "Ah, and the young Mlle. de Voisins, our late applicant!"

I had no idea how to respond. _What should I say?_

"Indeed, monsieur." Meg spoke now. I watched her inquiringly, "She has flourished in these past months."

"So I see!"

"You may also recall, if I may monsieur," she continued, in a tone of complete casualness, "that Mlle. de Voisins is also a fine soloist."

Amaud's eyes lit up.

"Do you know, I had quite forgotten!" He laughed, "But as you say, my dear, the recollection returns to me! I shall have to see to her appointment to a soloist's singing part, if she has anywhere near as fine a voice as how she dances! Good day, ladies!"

I stood, shocked. _A soloist's singing part?_ Mme. Giry took center stage.

"We shall continue rehearsal after mealtime. I expect everyone back here by _three in the afternoon_! Is that understood?"

The corps dispersed, many chattering and laughing over the prospect of food. However, I did not miss the scowls sent in my direction by Adèle and her companions. I lowered my head; I had not meant to upset anyone.

Mme. Giry glided to my side.

"A fortunate encounter with M. Amaud, no?"

Her eyes were twinkling. Suddenly, I realized why she had asked me to dance. I smiled.

"Thank you Mme. Giry." I said, my voice break off. She patted my shoulder.

"Come now, let us get something to eat." I followed at her side, "I hear that the show after next shall be _Les Troyens._ Perhaps you will be cast as Cassandra."

I laughed at the fancifulness of the idea. Suddenly, something white fluttered down from the flies. It landed before us: a letter, sealed with red wax. I bent to pick it up, shifting uncomfortably when I notice the insignia was in the shape of a human skull. I looked up; there was no one to be seen. Glancing at Mme. Giry, I said,

"Shall I open it?"

But was taken aback by her face. She had paled, lips pressed into a thin line, eyes fixed on the envelope.

"Mme. Giry? Are you alright?"

She did not answer. Meg, meanwhile, had caught up with the pair of us. She was smiled, but then betook her mother's face.

"Mama? What's wrong?"

Mme. Giry exhaled, a deep frown etched into her face. Meg looked at me in question, then down at what I held in my hand. If the elder Giry had lost color it was nothing to the younger. Meg went so white her dancing outfit looked quite beige; her eyes sought Mme. Giry's, than landed on me. She looked positively horrified; I feared she would faint. I didn't understand their alarm. I flipped the letter over; it was addressed to me.

Mme. Giry gasped, and placed a hand on Meg's shoulder for support. I became fearful for the Girys. _What had upset them so?_

"Mme. Giry, Meg," I said, pleading, "What is wrong?"

Meg said nothing. Mme. Giry closed her eyes for a moment, then looked at me.

"Open it, child."

I did so, pulling out the letter. The paper was lined with black, and in ink red as the cachet these words were written:

"_Great ability develops and reveals itself increasingly with every new assignment."_

_ -Gracian _

* * *

Hohoho! Reviews!


	6. Sur L'étape

Next chappie will be up very soon... I already have it half done...

BTW, out of these topics, which would you lot prefer me write a fic for: Reign of Fire (Creedy/OC; In my world, he DOESN"T die! XP), King Arthur (Tristan/OC), or Dracula (Dracula/OC; Mina can HAVE her stinkin' cupcake-man...)? I've been thinking up some ideas (the maths class...) but I want to know what people want before I throw something out there.

Pax

* * *

L'Opera was abuzz with excitement. Tonight, for the first evening in many a year, there was to be a production. Every nook had been scoured, every statue polished. Outside, a crowd, garnished with glittering jewels and ostrich plumes, had begun to assemble.

The principal characters stood backstage, busy with scales and final touches to their grease paint. The ballet brats all stood in the left wing; the seasoned dancers chattered nonchalantly amongst one another.

"I hope no one _trips_, don't you?"

In reply, with a mischievous glance at the trembling newcomers, "Oh _yes_! Do you remember what happened to that girl who fell five years ago?"

"It was _horrible_! I doubt she ever recovered!"

Such idle banter was brought to an abrupt end with a harsh word from the ballet mistress, who stood severely outside the dimness of the attached corridor. The stern lady's daughter lingered beside a large set piece, her fine golden hair detained with a wreath of violet, faux blossoms. Beside the handsome row leader, quivering in her small pointe shoes with both exhilaration and anxiety stood Marie de Voisins. Her dark locks were similarly held with flowers, these being bright yellow.

The small face, already flushed, became rosier still as the sounds of an audience began to drift through the thick curtains. Several months, in which she had become something of a proficient in the corps, had gone by since little Marie had come to L'Opera as a skinny orphan. As time past she had flourished, both physically and in her skill, becoming strong from dancing and healthy from daily meals.

With only moments only the start of the performance, a sudden fear gripped the soul of our young heroine. Her brow furrowed with rapidly coming distress.

"Meg." She whispered, addressing her taller friend, "Meg, what if I should misstep?"

Giry turned to her companion, raising her eyebrows.

"Marie, you aren't getting stage butterflies?"

"I don't know…" replied the first, wringing her fingers. Meg touched the tense shoulder fondly.

"You shan't misstep." Shrugging at the worried glance countered, she added, "You're far good to make such a mistake."

At this Marie paused. Meg Giry, daughter of the revered Mme. Giry, thought her a dancer worthy of her compliments. The reality of the long hours spent working at her competence, hours in which she had practiced until her young body succumbed to exhaustion, escaped her mind for the present.

Meg smiled gently. She had become undeniably clever in the years since MM. Richard and Moncharmin, a worthy and useful feature inherited from her mother. She cherished her friendship with Marie above most things, caring for her small companion and teaching her the ways of the trade, but there were times, such as this, when the novice's innocence and inexperience proved valuable.

But Meg found herself often worrying, as of late, for Marie. And she knew she was not the only one. The look on Mme. Giry's face as she gazed upon that letter had been all the evidence she needed to know that the ballet mistress feared her friend as well.

Things could not have been expected to go smoothly, not with the poor thing living in that accursed dressing room. An overwhelming sense of remorse had begun to settle upon the mind of Giry. She ought to have said something before Marie had set foot over the threshold. She ought to have implored of the management for her to reside in the dormitories. She ought to have warned the girl of what may still lurk in the shadows of L'Opera. She ought to have _done something_. Yet she have done nothing. _And now… and now…_

A shudder moved over Meg's body. Upon noticing, her little friend asked, with some concern, if she were cold. Giry shook her head and looking across the sea of dancers picked out Mme. Giry. Their eyes met for a short moment, then the elder turned to bark at a group of errant performers.

Meg sighed. She had found her mother very early that morning on the stage. Looking up at the flies, she had remembered how the dreaded object had drifted to Marie's toes. The latter still remained unaware to the meaning behind the anonymous note. In all probability, it would be better that way.

Mme. Giry turned when her daughter had approached. She looked distraught.

"Good morning, Maman."

With a sigh, the first replied, "Good morning. What brings you here at such an hour?"

Meg sat on an old set piece.

"I couldn't sleep."

Mme. Giry had stood, unmoving, forehead lined. The younger waited, then continued.

"Maman," the voice lowered to a whisper, "I'm worried for Marie."

Meg watched as her mother closed her eyes, and moved to rest on the same portion of scenery. Mme. Giry, to some (including Meg), was considered ageless. A symbol of authority and command; there was nothing that could best her, be it a headstrong manager or a malignant spirit armed with twenty sabers. But now, as she sat bent and weary, she seemed to age, to become a woman fatigued from years of demanding labor and meager income. She became the woman that, in reality, she was.

The young dancer placed her arms about her mother, resting her fair head upon the firm shoulder. Mme. Giry smiled wistfully, stroking the curls.

"I am worried for her as well."

Meg had sat back, searching her companion's worn face.

"I thought _he_ was dead," she said in a hushed tone, "I thought he died… that night..?"

Mme. Giry shook her head bitterly.

"No indeed, mon cher," she frowned, "I had hoped as much as well; when no sign of him appeared after so long, I made myself believe he was no more." Reaching into a pocket in her bodice, she had extracted the black-lined letter, "But this is evidence of all I'd feared."

"But how did he escape?" Meg hissed, "Surely there's no way he could have gotten past all those police?"

Mme. Giry gave her daughter a wry look.

"I'm sure it was nothing for him. That man is a genius." She had looked down at the letter, "Wicked and deranged, but a genius."

There was a moment of silence in which Meg shivered and snuggled closer to her only parent.

"And…" she had choked slightly on her words, terrified of hearing the response, "And what does he want with Marie?"

A look of true concern, one that Meg could count how many times she had seen cross Mme. Giry's face on a single hand, took hold of the ballet mistress's features. The pair looked at each other, both dreading the answer.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps had echoed over the theater. Meg sat up, and Mme. Giry stood. There, by the entrance, was the topic of their conversation.

* * *

I'm going to do some shout outs in the next A/N, so if you write me something lovely I'll attempt to flatter you shamelessly! 


	7. Le Lac de Cygne

Sorry this chapter kind of shortish... I'm so ridiculously tired right now, I cannot begin to describe. I actually fell asleep as I was writing this! It was the funniest thing I've ever done! I wake up, with my cheek on the keyboard, drooling all over the "H" "J" and "N" keys... disgusting...but hilarious...

**Pax's Shout-Outs of Doom (and Exposition!)!**

Queen of Perfectionism- I absolutely adored your review! I love getting reviews that mention a part of my writing and a reference to literature (and in this case Shakespeare, no less!)!

andersm- You bring up a very interesting point, about "which Erik" I'm using. I sat back and pondered your question upon receiving it, and this is the answer I came up with: I can't really answer it. Allow me to explain. I've read both versions of the book, seen all the movies, seen some of the performances... there are a lot of Eriks in my head. The most prominant (because they're my favorites) are the Susan Kay, and Leroux, the Michael Crawford, and the Gerard Butler Phantoms. And so my perception of Erik is a very fine hybrid of all the above. That was a really long way to explain something that could have been concluded in about seven words... My Phantom has a nose and a half mask, let's put it that way. ;P

Countess Alana- Ok, ok, ok... You want an update "tomorrow"...SO I GIVE YOU ONE THE DAY **AFTER** TOMORROW (which is also a fine film from Roland Emmerich!) BWA! Oh, the things that tickle my funny bone...

Prying Pandora- I love when people comment on my writing style! Thanks! Your comments really boosted my ego (which can be good OR bad, depending on the aspect at hand XD )!

Tamu Ali- Yes! PAR-TEY! I'm so happy someone thinks Marie isn't a Sue! I always worry, because everyone has such vastly different opinions, that one can never be sure...

If you commented, and I didn't mention you in my Shout-Outs, I'm really sorry! I _really_ need to sleep right now, or I'd write some more! Verbally harass me, put gum in my hair, or do something equally cruel to cancel out my act of unfairness!

Pax

* * *

"Positions everyone! In positions, now!" 

Meg hastened to her place, Marie trailing behind. But one dancer stood between their posts, the second in the between the first and third in the line. The ballet would not start for several minutes, but Mme. Giry always had the corps line up a quarter of an hour prior to a performance. Idleness was a thing she rarely tolerated.

Marie seemed to have been pacified, and now took her spot quite calmly, back straight and body poised. The row leader noticed, however, the occasional fidgets that arose, although veiled with the utmost discreetness. Reaching behind the back of the dancer her to left, Meg took Marie's white hand within her own and gave it a comforting squeeze. The pair made brief eye contact, a smile blooming on each face. Both thought, at this moment, that they could find neither a better friend nor a more kindred spirit.

Settling back into place, the elder girl sighed, and cast her eyes to the side. There, hidden in the shadows, stood a very familiar piece of scenery. She had sat there today, with her mother. Young Giry frowned as the memories returned.

* * *

Mme. Giry and her daughter were frozen; their bodies seemed to have sprouted roots right into the stage. With an apprehensive look and a small pucker to her brow, Marie de Voisins had taken a step from the doorway. 

"Mme. Giry? Meg? What is the matter?"

Neither responded. Neither moved a muscle. Becoming genuinely concerned, the little dancer had trotted forward.

"Please… is something wrong?"

Awakened by the distress in the young one's voice, the ballet mistress had taken in a shuddering breath and replied.

"We are quite well, Marie." Leaning on her cane and adding a sharper note to her voice (a thing that, indeed, made the dear Madame sound much more natural), "You've just startled us."

Small fingers went nervously to a strand of dark hair and began to tug.

"Forgive me. I did not mean to frighten you."

"There is nothing to forgive." Was the curt reply.

Meg, blinking and taking to her feet, smiled and hastened to the side of her friend.

"It is nothing, really it isn't." Walking quickly from the stage, she continued, "Let us go and find something to eat! You must be starved!"

Marie had smiled and hurried to follow. Nonetheless, she did not fail to notice the strange and fearful gaze Mme. Giry cast first in her direction, and then at the flies.

* * *

The time for the ballet performance had come. M. Bonnaire counted off one bar, and then the orchestra began the concerto. The troop had blossomed under the stern direction of Mme. Giry, and thus their piece was exceptional. Each one, from the lesser and more amateur and their simple gestures, to the fine proficients in the front with their intricate movements, matched their fellows perfectly. It had been long since such a show had been seen in Parisian society, and the audience followed the exhibition with keen eyes. Several noticed the young dancer cavorting prettily near center stage. She was a recent addition, most knew, for they had not observed the creature before this night. 

Fate, it seemed, had laid down a new path for Marie de Voisins. As of early autumn, she had been nothing more than a shivering orphan, wandering the streets of France, begging a crust of bread in exchange of a song. Now, in the third week of December, on the night of her first recital, she had inadvertently become a house favorite. Ladies, leaning in their seats, whispered of her behind elegant fans.

"What a little thing she is!"

"And so accomplished!"

"Charming! Look how she moves!"

Lurking silently just outside an entrance, Mme. Giry smiled surreptitiously. Meg had implored of her to place their row in front, and the elder had complied. And now, it appeared their plan had been carried out with almost no employment on her behalf. These fine women, duchesses and gentlewoman, nobles and viscountesses, had fallen for the bait. Laughing softly, the ballet mistress reseeded, without a sound, back into the corridor. Mlle. de Voisins would be well taken care of from this night out.

But the court ladies were not the only ones to have detected Marie. Two more pairs of eyes followed her with rapt attention. One duo we know by now quite well. They were situated in a head, attached to a body which sat, invisible to all, in the infamous Box Five. For, to be sure, the Opera Ghost himself was in attendance.

The shade felt just then that there could not be a happier man on the Earth. He had procured his private booth from the managers, for it seemed Amaud was a superstitious man and Garnier an entrepreneur; the first would not risk upsetting a spirit, and the latter would not risk the ruin of a fine business. Old Giry, too, had aided in his current pleasure, for his little angel had been placed in the limelight, available to the public eye and directly within his own gaze. Leaning forward, the Opera Ghost beheld Mlle. de Voisins with rapture. She danced just as the fairy she was dressed to be.

The performance this night was _Le Lac de Cygne_, and though someone had been very stupid and made up the corps as more woodland sprites than swans, our acquaintance could not find it in his heart to accuse them at present.

However, there was, as stated, another who sat engrossed. He was in his father's box, unquestionably an excellent one, his chin resting upon one hand. This spectator was very much like a Greek statue: tall, features strong and pale, fair haired and blue eyed. His name was Gustave de Levesque, the son of the Comte and Contesse de Levesque, all frequents to L'Opera.

Gustave shifted in his seat, touching a finger to his lip, both absorbed in his thoughts and fascinated with the lovely new ballet rat. The Vicomte was by no means a novice in the art of courtship; contrary to the point, he was known as a regular philanderer, and it was not a rare thing for him to become "involved", as the public so euphemistically spoke of such events, with silly, young chorus girls. It _was_ a rare thing, however, for him to maintain these associations for very long.

The symphony held the prolonged, final note to the dance (a fermata after two bars of ritardando ) and finished grandly. Bountiful applause followed the corps off stage, and dimmed again as the soloist, La Sybille, returned for the concluding aria. Gustave rose to his feet to declare his approval of the dance, and in particular, whom he followed with his bright eyes as she quit the stage, Marie.

Even as the diva began her canticle, Box Five was empty. Its sole occupant had whisked himself into the hidden passage within the nearby column after the ballet finished and now waited in some unseen nook. Soon enough, there by came the herd of brats, laughing and whispering; trailing from a short distance were Meg Giry and Marie. The smaller was trembling and flushed with jubilation, as she should be, for she had done her row justice.

"Just you wait, Marie de Voisins!" cried Giry, clutching the young one's arm, "You will be a Prima Donna in no time!"

Giggling nervously, the said child shook her head.

"I certainly will not! I will remain a dancer!"

Marie stood very close now to the wall, her back nearly touching the wood. The very same wall which concealed a dark, cloaked figure.

"Bah! A dancer _indeed_! If you shall stay a dancer, then I shall become Empress!"

He could smell her. Sweet jasmine and magnolia (a bottle of cologne that had been giddily past about the corps this afternoon; no doubt she had attained a spot) and lavender. From his pillows. A piece of himself upon her. At that instant, the Opera Ghost struggled against every muscle in his body, forcing them to stay still. He longed desperately to touch her , to run his finger through her hair (_She was so damned **close**!_), to seize her little form and spirit her away! But he could not! He must not make the same mistake twice!

"Come! Let us go to the dormitories! We must celebrate!"

And away they went. The third party slumped to the ground, gasping. There were beads of sweat upon his face, and spasms coming over his body. He needed to return to his home; he needed his medicine quickly before he became very ill. As he darted away, grasping his shoulder in pain, a sneer formed on his face. _A very worthy companion for such a young beauty!_ He thought sourly, descending through the cellars. _An old wretch whose own body works against him!_

_

* * *

_Hahaha! Oh come on! Who thought I meant Erik when I said "the topic of their discussion" in the last chapter! Come on, don't be shy! I schooooled you! It must be Thanksgiving, cause you've been STUFFED! XD  



	8. Mascarade de Noël Part I

A/N: Just some clearing up, because I've gone and confused people again (GAH! When will I learn to stop doing this?) 

At the performance, two guys were watching Marie: Erik (in Box Five), and my new character, Vicomte Gustave de Levesque (whom I like to call Skeazy McSleeps-around). The high class ladies were also interested in Marie, because they thought her cute, and probably thought her younger than she was (this was actually inspired by my younger, twelve year old sister; she and her friends were ohhing and ahhing over this group of little kids I was teaching the other day... Oh, the days of middle school/ junior high…)

As for Erik's illness, in the Susan Kay novel, he has some sort of heart disease. I don't know exactly what's wrong, but he has heart attacks and gets sick for a time after each one. This is also worsened by his (again in the Kay novel) addiction to morphine, which he has his 'servant' (a dim-witted peasant named Jules, who brings him stuff from the outside world; Kay novel) purchase for him. These are really important factors, because they will come into play heavily in the later chapters of _Wander in Winter_. I suggest, to those who have the means to do so, that you read Susan Kay's _Phantom_. It's not only a fabulous read, but it also gives great depth to Erik and will bring about a new level of understanding.

I also noticed a mistake I made in my lethargic state last night! I said Gustave looked like a _Greek _statue! You see how tired I was? I meant _Roman_ statue! X -

One more thing: I mentioned Erik's letter was "black lined" a few times, and just to clarify, gentleman in the late 19th century would have gold-lined

Oh! Guess whaaaat? You know what's going to happen in the next two chaaaaaapters? A certain two people are going to meet…..

Happy Reading!

Pax

* * *

M. Amaud, humming the aria from the previous night's performance, handed his jacket to a maid with a grin. He was in a splendid mood. _Le Lac de Cygne _had done famously with the public. Entering his joint office, he found Garnier sitting rigidly, as he often did, at his desk, reading a letter.

"Good morning, Garnier!" his colleague declared, removing his gloves and tossing them upon his own writing table.

"Good morning, Amaud." Was the solemn reply.

"What is it you're reading? A letter? And from whom?"

With a sigh, the taller gentleman folded the stationary and placed it neatly under a paper weight.

"A note from the Duchesse de Posey. She says that she greatly esteemed the concert and that the Duc and herself wish to donate a small sum to L'Opera."

"Fabulous!" bellowed Amaud, smacking the over polished mahogany of Garnier's table. The mustache drooped further as its possessor frowned at the hand print left in the wake of the action. Opening a drawer at his side, a cloth was produced and brought to obliterate the offending mark.

(A/N: I'm sorry, but I absolutely LOVE Amaud! He's the best character I've ever created!)

"Indeed. We are doing quite well, particularly with the Noël Ball approaching-"

"It is the talk of the town! I hear of nothing else when I was at Mme. de Duval's salon!"

"-which brings us to another point of business, Amaud." The first continued, rising his voice slightly to catch the round manager's attention, "The society invitations-" This is how he referred to the invitations sent to the wealthy regulars-"Have long been delivered, but we have yet to do so with the ones for the staff."

"Ah, yes!" Sitting down and placing his spectacles upon his nose, Amaud took up a pen, "And who shall be asked?"

Garnier unfolded his slender length and walked to the window.

"It is tradition, I understand, to invite the corps de ballet-"

"Very well." The pen began to scribble.

"-but they will come to the social hall _only_. Not that ballroom." With a frown, "There are far too many of them for the entire group to be permitted into the promenade. They would make the room congested."

"And so all of them will remain in the assembly room?"

"Unless they are otherwise invited."

There was a pause in which Garnier thought and Amaud wrote.

"La Sybille must come, as well as the other chief chorus members."

"Very well…"

"Mme. Giry shall also receive a formal invitation, for it is greatly to her that we owe our success."

"And the daughter? Shall she accompany her mother?"

Garnier reflected for a moment.

"Yes, and the other fine dancer, Mlle. de Voisins."

Amaud smiled brightly as he recorded, remembering his encounter with the pair of young

ladies.

"I hear the second girl is quite the vocalist."

Garnier removed his vigil from the Parisian skyline to glance at his partner.

"Is she?" returning his eyes to their previous occupation, "Then we must have her audition for a singing role, I suppose."

* * *

I sat at my vanity table, looking at my reflection skeptically. In the past four months I had definitely become healthier than I had been in many a year, but I really couldn't see myself as attractive in the least. A small piece of paper, on which was blazoned in gold:

_Mascarade de Noël!_

_le 22ème Décembre à L'Opéra_

sat beside my hand on the table top. I could not help but to gaze at it, once again, bemused, having not the slightest idea of how I had come to secure it. A ball? I had never been to such a grand reception, nor less a masquerade! The letter had arrived shortly after the performance. I awoke to find it upon the floor boards; it looked as thought someone had slipped it under the door while I slept.

The masque was to happen tomorrow. Ought I go? I had heard other girls in the corps chatting about the group summons the managers had delivered early that morning. Picking up the note, I frowned. _Had others received one?_ Perhaps it was best I go after all, for I had been sent a formal summons…

Another thought suddenly plagued my mind. _What would I wear! _Glancing over my shoulder at the bureau, taking in its scanty contents, I began to panic. I quite literally had nothing that would suit a ball. Resting my head upon my arms and letting out a moan in defeat I whispered, "What should I do?"

A knock broke through my reverie; before I had lifted my face off the table, Meg opened the door and came into the room, smiling.

"Afternoon. And how are we?"

I sighed, tugging at my hair, a habit I had recently adopted.

"I'm confused." I told her, joining her on the sofa-bed. "I don't know what I should do about the ball."

"Go. Maman and I shall be there."

"Yes, but…"

"But what? I've been to masques before. They're no trouble. Just stay with me and nothing will go wrong."

When I didn't reply, Meg leaned forward, seeking my eyes.

"Well?"

Desperately, I sought to formulate a way to explain my situation without sounding plaintive.

"_Well_?"

"Meg," I began softly, "I…the problem is…I… well, I," I shrugged, feeling embarrassed "I have nothing to wear."

There was only a moment's pause before she burst out laughing.

"Is that what's worrying you, child?" She implored, placing an arm about my shoulders and hugging me gently, "That will be nothing at all to fix! Come! Let us go right this minute to the wardrobe hall and find you a fine gown!"

As Meg pulled me to my feet, myself too bewildered to function, and from the dressing room, I felt a grateful tear prick my eye.

_What should I do without her?_

* * *

Such a sweet creature! So intricate, and so simple at times! I wanted to laugh, but could not bring myself to mock her innocent nature.

The hidden passageways about the ballet dormitories, built back in the time of the Communist's, had long gone untouched until recently. Now, I daresay I used them every day. I followed one now, trailing a small distance behind Young Giry and my dear Marie. I had become most interested upon Giry's comment about finding her friend a 'fine gown' for the approaching (indeed, if today was Saturday, which it was, than it should be the very next evening!) Mascarade de Noël that the new managers had resolved to throw.

They arrived, and I leaned forward, seeking a better look. I also took the moment to observe Marie's delicate figure more thoroughly. She was very small, perhaps reaching Meg Giry's nose, (_about the height of my shoulder_) slender, pale skinned, and with dark hair. Such a person would look very well in blue, or perhaps red depending on the shade. _I shall have to have a dress made for her, made of satin, in indigo. No, that would be too dark for her; cerulean would possibly do better…_

While I brooded, Giry had selected a frock and now held it up against Marie.

"What do you think? It's a very lovely color."

A grimace twisted my face. Certainly not. The chosen garment was of pink velvet, and most unattractive.

"Do you like it?" Asked the naïve child, looking down.

"Try it on and we shall see."

I sought to calm my racing heartbeat and breath as the row leader helped her to remove her dress. Perhaps it was dissolute for a beast to watch a young girl undress, but I could not help myself. _I shall only see her chemise, after all…._

She looked even slighter in solely her corset and underdress. My fingers twitched, they craving to touch left famished. Both pieces of attire, however, were very tattered. _I should have to replace them._

The pink fright was clearly tailored for one with a much more extensive bust and hip, as they came to find. I scowled; it may, in reality, have been created for Carlotta, the Spanish cow. Another was picked by Meg, this one green and also very ugly. I rubbed my temples in frustration. I had hoped her taste in clothing would have been better.

I perceived a row of more elegant gowns by the end of the line. I willed them to notice, but no such luck was mine. An idea suddenly flickered within my skull. Quietly clearing my throat, I made a sharp 'crack' with my tongue, using one of my Gypsy tricks to send it across room, in the direction I desired they look. Both leapt into the air, startled; I smothered another laugh.

It was Marie, my dear, sweet, lovable Marie who saw the row.

"Meg," she said, tugging Giry's sleeve, "What about those?"

Success.

Meg, too, seemed delighted with 'their discovery'. She chattered, as young women tend to do when excited, and dug through the rack. But it was Marie, again, who made the find. The gown was yellow, but not luminous, of taffeta with subtle black, beaded lace about the collar (_a square neckline, which I rather liked_). I watched ardently as she shed her current apparel and donned the new. It flattered her; she looked exceptionally beautiful. I would not have given the dress a second look had the choice been left to me. I would have gone with the sapphire-tinted one two racks over. But I soon learned to love this frock almost as much as I loved Marie.

The thought made me freeze.

_No_. It could not be.

_No_. I was to be her Angel. _Nothing more_.

I could not come to harbor such feelings for her. Again she captured my gaze; twirling, laughing as the skirts fluttered about her legs. I could not help myself. I treasured her existence like no other. Her life would come before mine should the situation arise.

"Let's go to the prop closet and find some jewelry!"

_Oh_! The turn of her darling face upon hearing 'jewels'. _I would find her the wealth of Atlantis should she desire it._

"Jewelry? I don't think-"

"Oh, come on!"

And she was dragged from the room. I did not follow. Instead I stood, gasping, aching, dying of love. _My heart longed for her_. Shaking my head, I retreated, not to my common post behind the mirror, but to my home. I felt tired; perhaps I should sleep. _My hands itched to feel her within their cold circle._

Little did I suppose that soon my path would cross with that of young Marie de Voisins. That my heart would soon be soothed by her voice. That my arms would soon hold her.

* * *

BTW, " _Mascarade de Noël" _just means "Christmas Ball", but I felt like being a pompous ass and putting it in French.  



	9. Mascarade de Noël Part II

Thank you, all of you, for the lovely and heartening reviews! They made me smile! 

I realize that I forgot to make a break in between POV's (again…)… I'M SORRY! GAH! THIS IS ABOUT THE FOUR BAZILLITH TIME I'VE DONE THAT!

Thanks for bring that to my attention, Queen of Perfectionism. It shall be fixed.

Also, in response to your question MoonLiz, Carlotta's ethnicity depends on what version of the story you refer to. In Leroux's story, she clearly stated to be from Spain. ALW, for some reason or another, decided to make her Italian (probably so she can have a silly accent). In this phic, I'm trying my best to be true to keep faithful to Leroux, thus the ex-prima donna is Spanish. I knew this question was going to come up... just after I typed it, I paused and went "You know… someone's going to notice…" Way to be observant!

Pax

* * *

The ball was set to begin in exactly one hour. I sat on my bed, running my fingers through my hair in an attempt to tame it. Meg had insisted that I allow her to increase the amount of coil, and had then used a hot, metal iron to create finer ringlets. The result, I admit, looked wonderful and very fashionable, but had also made my head appear outsized, what with the many layers of burnished curls. She had dashed off to find something (a ribbon, perhaps) that I might use to hold them down.

I moved to the small table-top mirror, and gazed at the reflection, hands tugging in a futile attempt to flatten the mane. No luck. With a sigh, I sank into a chair. _Where was Meg?_

There came a knock at the door. I glanced over, surprised; Meg never knocked.

"Yes?" I said, rising to reply to the appeal. Upon turning the knob, I was shocked to find Adèle and her friend Lucille standing before me.

"Hello, Marie!" it was the first who spoke, "Are you ready for the Masque? I hear you were _personally invited_ by the managers."

"I-…Not quite yet." I touched my hair uncomfortably. Adèle had not uttered a word to me since the events preceding _Le Lac de Cygne_. Perhaps she wished to be friends?

"Well then, let me help you prepare!" she said with a smile, stepping across the threshold, Lucille following. I paused. _What about Meg? But I do not want to anger them…_

"Very well…"

I shut the door and turned. Adèle came forward, giving a strand of my hair a small jerk.

"And what, pray tell, do you plan to so with this?"

"Oh, well, Meg went to get something for it."

She paused, her smile seeming oddly tense.

"Giry?" I did not miss the subtle look that past between the two, but could understand its meaning. "When shall she be back?"

"I… I don't know." I honestly replied, "Soon, I should think."

No more was said on the topic; she released my curl and picked my dress of the sofa.

"And this, I presume, is your dress?" without waiting for an answer, she continued, "How lovely! Let me help you get it on!"

I tried to appear friendly.

"Alright!"

"But first," she looked me up and down, "We must tie your corset _properly_!"

I followed her gaze to my middle.

"Properly?" I was confused, "What is wrong with it?"

Adèle clucked her tongue, Lucille looking at me with a sigh pity.

"Poor thing," the ladder said, "Giry didn't tell her…"

"Jealous, I'd guess." To me, "It hardly flatters your figure as such, my dear. Let me set it right."

I nodded, feeling perplexed. _Meg, lie to me? Jealous?_ Undoing the knot at my lower back, Adèle gave the string a harsh wretch. I gasped.

"Isn't that too tight?..." I asked, grapping the back of a chair for support.

"Not at all! This is how a corset is _meant _to be worn!"

I smiled weakly, and nodded, an indication to carry on. _Well, if it were **supposed** to be worn like this…_

The lacing was painful, and when she finished I felt starved for air. My hand slid to my stomach, and I winced.

"There! Doesn't that look handsome, Lucille?"

"Oh yes!" Was the eager reply, "Absolutely breathtaking!"

Again, I tried to smile, but could not.

"Thank you."

"Oh! Not at all!" Adèle waved her hand, and held out my gown as I stepped into it. The pair did up the back, and stood to survey their work.

"Perfectly charming! You'll be the most popular lady at the ball!"

"Girl, Lucille." Adèle corrected, giving me a sweet look, "Marie is not yet a lady. You are but seventeen are you not? That is what I've heard."

"Yes." I wheezed. _Did women truly were their corsets so tight? How did they **breathe**?_

Her smile became wider, and she flipped her curls over her shoulder.

"But year or so younger than we two!" this was said to Lucille, "Well," now to me, "We really ought to go get ready, ourselves!" They went to the door and, with a wave and a grin, they were gone.

I sat heavily. My abdomen ached from the strict restraint. Footsteps came down the hall, the door swung open to reveal Meg.

"Look! These will be perfect-" She halted, surprised, "Oh! You're dressed!"

I looked up, tried to read her face. I did not want to believe she had deceived me. Meg Giry was the dearest person in the world to me. _Maybe she forgot to mention it._ That seemed to make sense. _Or perhaps she didn't want to hurt me, for this certainly hurt. _That made even _more _sense.

I suddenly noticed what she held: two bands, thin and silvery, lined with shining, clear jewels (_Diamonds? I was not sure; I'd have to learn more about finery…_). She followed my eyes, and grinned broadly.

"Look what I found!" She said in a singsong tone, holding them against my head with a flourish. I sought my likeness in the mirror; they were magnificent.

"Sit down, let me fasten them."

I obeyed, cringing as my waist protested.

"What's wrong?"

"Oh! Nothing!"

"It looked like something was."

I urgently tried to think of an excuse. I didn't want to hurt her feelings by telling her about Adèle.

"I stubbed my toes on the sofa… while you were gone." I added quickly, seeing her eyebrow begin to rise. Meg watched me for a moment, then shrugged, excepting my explanation.

The rest of my preparation went without dilemma, as did hers (a lovely gown of pale blue). I helped her clasp a fine silver chain, with a deep colored stone hanging from the end, about her neck, and then we were ready. Mme. Giry was waiting in the hall, in black, but appearing just as regal as she would have any other way. She smiled when we exited.

"You look lovely, my dears."

Meg kissed her cheek and I blushed. Then, the three of us proceeded down the corridor.

* * *

I knew something was amiss the very instant that scheming wench was revealed behind the door. What could such a shrew want with my precious Marie? My eyes had narrowed into angry slits when she'd commented upon the corset (_By God, it was tight enough! Any more and she shouldn't breath properly!_), and rage filled me when she _mended_ the issue. I hardly knew the particulars of female dress, but it was obvious a cruel trap was being set.

Then they left, the villains! Left the poor thing, helpless as a kitten with her tiny paw trapped beneath a stone! My blood burned with hate. They would pay for their malice, for their vindictiveness towards one younger, more innocent, and certainly more talented than the pair combined! When her little hand went to her middle, when I heard the gasps for air, it took all I had within me to control myself. _I must not! Giry will relieve her! **She must not know of me!**_ A smirk twisted its way across my face. Indeed, the Girys where quite aware that I was alive and well.

It had happened just before the performance of _Le Lac de Cygne_; the pair had been whispering fervently to one another (_although I heard every word…_) upon the great stage when the Opera Ghost had made himself known. I had wanted to laugh at their bewildered faces, to scoff. Had they thought me gone forever? I? The Phantom of the Opera? The Trap-Door Lover? Bah! _Indeed!_

I had bowed, most formally, sweeping back my cloak as a gentleman would do, then rose and smiled darkly at the fear in each face. Silence had reigned; then Mme. Giry, the stately, old spinster had whispered.

"Erik?..."

I had nodded, mocking and gleeful. Little Meg had gone so white she had begun to revel me for color. Taking a step towards her, my smile curled into a grin.

"_Boo_."

She trembled, but the elder seemed to have regained herself.

"What is your meaning, sir, of hounding young ballet girls? Have you not learnt your lesson?"

I froze, then chuckled.

"And what is _your_ meaning, my dear woman," I countered, flouting her address, "of placing young ballet girls within my grasp?"

Her lips tightened into a firm line, but I saw the fright flickering within her gaze. At that moment, pattering footsteps had sounded from the hall. _Only one other person could be trotting about at such hours of morning._

"Meg?"

My heart had fluttered. _It was her!_ All eyes slide to the door, then two pairs fell on my person. I turned my head slowly from the entry, leering at the Girys.

"Leave her be, Erik!" Mme. Giry hissed, nostrils whitening.

I had chortled with sinister delight, then with a flick of my cape and a wink, I was gone, escaping through a hatch on which I had carefully placed myself.

(A/N So Erik _DID_ show up on the stage! I GOT YOU TWICE! )

I snarled in frustration. How could that simpleton, Meg Giry, not have noticed her companion's distress! Was it not evident! I was nearly tearing out my hair (_precious, though it was to my scalp_)! What a block! A stone! A less than worthless thing! As they quit they room, I scuttled away from my spot behind the mirror and sought out a passageway that followed the corridor to the ball room. _It seemed I would have to be her Angel tonight_. 

Though my irritation was hardy that night, I could not deny that the Masquerade was, artistically, very well assembled. Gold and silver lined every niche of the great ballroom and in the center stood a tall, majestic Arbre de Noël. This was very much the focus of the crowd; it was beautifully (_even I must admit_) ornamented with hundreds of red and blue candles, apples and walnuts dyed gold especially for the occasion, nets made of colored paper, and, perhaps best of all, little dolls that looked exactly like people. At the summit was fixed a tinsel star which quite completed the sight.

This was nothing, however, to the look of enchantment upon the darling visage of one young ballet girl as her fine grey eyes took in the tree. Despite the fact that I was positive she could hardly draw breath, a wide, delighted smile grew upon her lips. Sighing, I reclined against a nearby pillar. _I should never forget that face_.

The evening past rather well, I thought, with only two factors which piqued me. The first was that no one, not either Giry, nor M. Amaud, who paraded about the room merrily (_perhaps due to the large goblet of spirits that he held in his hand_), nor anyone else noticed Marie's discomfort which clearly plagued her. The second, which only just overwhelmed the first, was that the dance card of _my_ little love was never vacant. I suspected Meg had taught her the art of ballroom dancing, for she had quite mastered the skill I noticed cantankerously as she waltzed within the arms of several anonymous men. That hussy, _Lucille, _had been quite right. She was the most popular lady at the ball.

I slipped away and returned with a decanter of wine and a cup, to mute my displeasure. Most of the partners I had no quarrel with; they were either silly young men or thoughtless old ones. But one caused my apocryphal hackles to rise. A handsome gentleman (_a **Vicomte**, as it turned out_) with pale coloration. Throughout the evening, I watched sullenly as he pursued her, seeking her hand on numerous instances. At one point, at about ten o'clock, he had the audacity to lean forward and press his cheek against Marie's. My grip on my thankfully empty glass became so unyielding that soon I felt it shatter between my fingers. Scowling at the broken shards, I seized the neck of the bottle and took a deep swing, trembling with anger. She was _mine_. Mine to protect, mine to spoil, mine to covet. Mine to love. My only solace was the expression of shock and the blush the crept across her cheeks. She did not desire such affection. Not from _him_, anyway.

It was now late at night; Marie had escaped from her small herd of admirers and stood presently near where I sat, concealed. I watched closely as she let out a shuttering breath and clutched her slight waist. Her eyes closed as she quivered; I set down my carafe, brows drawing together as I studied her with concern. She suddenly reopened her eyes and looked about, found a door, and quickly hurried from the room. I scurried after her.

Her trek ended behind the stage, where she stopped, and leaned against the wall, panting. I noticed anxiously that sweat was beaded upon her face; she was dreadfully pale. My heart ached as she let out a soft whimper, pressing a hand to her middle and used the other to fan herself. Beginning to recognize her symptoms, I slowly prepared myself for the worst, locating the nearest trapdoor into the hall and poising myself behind it.

Marie turned and propped her body on the side of the passage; her eyes fluttered, fingers scrabbled for the fastenings. Then she collapsed. I darted out, but not quickly enough to impede her fall. I placed a hand before her mouth; no breath. I began to panic, but common sense told me quite clearly what I must do. I swiftly but carefully turned her body over, and fumbled with the buttons. My fingers shook. I swore darkly and steadied them, unfastening the material down her back. I found her corset beneath and began at the labored restraint._ Those wretched ballet tarts would pay…_

As the laces came undone, I heard her cough and gasp for breath. I propped her dear head upon my lap as she trembled, my hands touching her curls. _So soft… _Those large eyes blinked wearily, a single drop, induced from the pain, falling from one, and rose, beholding the masked man who held her. She gasped quietly, appearing frightened. Glancing down, she noticed her dress with astonishment, again looking to me in question. _Had a mysterious specter come to save her?_ Marie clearly wondered something of the sort by the way she gazed at me.

Carefully, as not to frighten her, I raised a finger and captured the tear. She watched, fascinated, as I brought the digit to my mouth and placed it upon my tongue.

"Marie? MARIE?"

Simultaneously, we both looked to the source of the noise; it came from the throat of Young Giry, but she was not yet in this corridor. I cupped her cheek for a moment, savoring the feeling of her skin against mine. Her sweet lips parted, as though she meant to say something, but I stood quickly whisked away. She sat up, bewildered by my sudden disappearance.

Meg skidded around the corner, skirts clutched in her hands.

"Marie! Oh, Marie!"

Scampering to the side of the beauty on the floor, Giry scanned her for sign of injury. Mme. Giry glided to her side soon after, appearing concerned.

"What on earth are you doing on the ground in such a manner?"

"Maman!"

Meg cradled her little friend, who responded shakily.

"I- I must have fainted."

"Fainted?"

The elder seemed alarmed, and lowered to a knee, examining Marie's face and eyes for indication of illness, while the younger went into hysterics.

"My corset must have been too tight…" was the quiet explanation.

"Why did you not tell me!" shrilled Meg.

"I thought it was supposed to be tight. She told me-" She started, realizing her mistake.

"Who told you?" Mme. Giry demanded. Marie looked down, ashamed.

"Adèle." Was the soft reply.

"Adèle did up your corset?"

"Yes, Madame."

I smirked. My vengeance was sure to be completed, what if the expression on Mme. Giry's face was evidence enough.

"And you undid it yourself, after you fainted?"

"No…no…" My heart pounded. _Her mind was on me_, "_He_ saved me."

"_He_?" The word was spoken with a degree of apprehension tingeing the edges.

"Yes. I awoke, and," Her exquisite eyes seemed far away, "he was there. He saved me."

There was a long silence, in which both Girys looked at one another fearfully.

"Who is he, Marie?"

"I don't know…"

With only a slight glance in each other direction, Meg hurried the wobbly girl away. Mme. Giry stood and looked about the hall.

"Erik." She whispered harshly, but I did not miss the quiver in her tone, "Stay away from her."

A smiled formed on my lips as I sauntered leisurely back to my place beside the dressing room. _I had never been on to follow the rules of others_. Bringing my hand to my face, I inhaled the scent her hair had left upon my hand, and shuddered with delight. _Why ought I start now_?

* * *

I stole the description of the "Arbre de Noël" (which means Christmas tree, for those who didn't figure it out... couldn't help it. Had to put it in French. I'm such a loser.) from the genius of Hans Christian Andersen. ( I love him!) Reviews!  



	10. L’ombre de Mystère

WEELA! Wander in Winter has reached a clean sixty reviews! That's more than I've ever received on any fic:Cries: I LOVE YOU GUYS! 

Miko Kayla: For answers about Erik, check out the A/N preceding chapter seven; I gave andersm I really inadequate response to a similar question, but it's the best I can do when I try to explain my Erik with words….

Gerry's Girl: (_You get a series of random fragment statements! Hoorah!_) Math class is the most opportune period for me to write, seeing as I would rather bludgeon myself to death with a burlap sack filled with nails than "list the theorems that pertain to properties of equality"; Cerulean is the finest breed of crayons there is; and, yes, I steal everything, but repackage it and make it look fresh, like a stolen car dealer (do you like the analogy? I rather do…). So if you ever notice something of yours has gone missing, say a sweater of a notebook, chances are I've been through your things and stole it.

I am a sneaky ninja.

I have 144 stealth points.

You will never catch me.

Ha. Haha. Ha.

Pax

* * *

When I reached my station I stared through the glass to find Meg Giry clucking and fussing over the trembling, white figure that was Marie like a mother hen over a chick. Watching with a growing smile, I viewed as she thrust a cup of water nearly into the younger's face, padded the face with a handkerchief, and wrapped a quilt about the thin shoulders, all while still in her blue silk gown.

Marie had been shed of her own finery, curls tied neatly away with a length of pink ribbon, and sat in her nightdress protesting Meg's excitement.

"How could I have just _left_ you there? Why, _of course_ something was to happen!-"

"Meg-"

"I should have known better! Good Lord, I _saw_ Adèle as she went down the hall, _loathsome girl_,-"

"Meg…"

"And why are you not drinking that water? Come now, sip it down! I'll not have you fainting again on my conscience!"

Marie silently obeyed, bringing the brim to her lips and swallowing.

"Can you _ever_ forgive me? I ought to have noticed you were in pain!" This was said as Giry plunked down beside her friend on the récamier and wrapped the small creature in her arms. I could not help but notice how my darling subtlety rested her head upon the other girl, taking comfort. _I wish it were I from which she found solace_.

"I don't blame you in the least, Meg Giry," was the reply from the little martyr, "I am at fault for nothing speaking. And even now I keep you from a fine ball! You must go and enjoy it for the both of us."

Meg seemed aghast.

"And leave you alone?"

"I shall be quite well, I promise you. Besides," this was said with such amiability that my insides clenched, "it would be cruel and selfish of me to hold you here when such an event is taking place! I will doubtless be asleep in five minutes, for I _am_ very tired."

Giry's qualms seemed to vanish at this last statement.

"Of course! You must sleep! I am doing _everything_ wrong tonight! First I overlook your torture, and now I keep you from sleep! I will leave and let you rest."

Kissing her cheek in a sisterly manner, Meg brought another blanket from the cupboard, and blew out the candle as the room's tenant lay down upon the settee.

"Goodnight, Meg."

"Goodnight Marie. Pleasant dreams."

And then the door closed with a click. There was no noise for a moment besides the crackling flames. Her eyes were very much open, and I observed that although she appeared fatigued, Marie did not look as if to have any inclination towards slumber. She rubbed her pretty nose into the pillow, but still peeked out, watching the hearth with shimmering eyes. I was suddenly struck, as though by lightning. _She was not going to…She did not intend to…_ But I was, it seemed, perfectly accurate.

Soon, a great tear fell down her cheek. It was followed by another, and another, and more still, until she sat, quivering with quiet sobs, all alone, in the dark.

My heart shattered.

She had made her friend, her only friend, believe she was all right so that Meg's mind wouldn't be troubled. She had sacrificed her own contentment so that another might be at peace. And now, when she thought herself in solitude, she wept from the hurt the malicious prank had bestowed.

I would not leave her as such. _You must not be seen!_

I could not leave her as such. _This will end in pain!_

But I no longer cared if I should be harmed. Marie de Voisins was all I had in the wide, empty world. There was nothing but her smile that brought me pleasure. There was nothing but her happiness that brought me peace. For the second time, I opened my mouth and began to sing.

_Viens apporter á la terre…_

She tensed, recognizing the sound.

_Le calme enchantement de ton mystère l'ombre qui t'escorte est si douce…_

_Si soux est le concert de tes voix… _

_Chantant l'espérance._

Still tears flowed from her eyes, but her sobs had subsided somewhat. I took a shuddering breath.

"Do not cry, my dear, for all shall be well."

Marie gasped, seeking the source of the voice.

"Look to your mirror, little one, for I am there within."

Thus our eyes met, not for the very first time, but it felt as such. She rose off the récamier and moved, spellbound, to the glass. I could read her thoughts: _A man stands where my reflection ought to be!_ Slowly, I extended my arm in offering.

"Let me comfort you."

She stood just before me now, with no barrier between. I could hear her breath, smell her fragrance. I had been right in my estimation, for the top of her lovely head reached just to my shoulder. _Such a little thing!_ I almost gasped when she laid her hand in mine. She had accepted me. She trusted me. Her tearful eyes met mine.

"Come." I whispered, and gently pulled her through the mirror.

It was a trail I had followed countless times; the dank, lightless hall, crawling with rats and other pests. Every day for nearly three months I'd left my home (if I had even returned) early and pursued the young Mlle. de Voisins, using passages I long since forgot and discovering new ones I had never known existed. They were all gloomy and dripping, unpleasant in their way.

Yet the tunnel I now ensued felt vastly different. It was not, for nothing had changed in a visual sense. But I was not alone. I had Marie with me. Her presence brought light to the dreariness. To hear her nimble danseuse feet just behind me brought joy as I had never experienced. _What of Christine? Did she not also walk down this same hall?_ I frowned; though the circumstances were very similar this instance felt so new, so fresh. _I shall not think of Christine; I have Marie now._

Despite the ease her company gave me, it was evident the same could not be said for the stated party. Marie clearly did not like the darkness of the route; she hurried to stay by my side, trembling with restlessness. A had not thought her of such a nervous constitution, but then, I supposed, she did not often stroll in shadows, as did I. Gently, I ran my thumb over her fingers, an attempt to placate. I began to regret that I had no horse for her to ride; the way was long, and I worried she would tire. _I must visit the stables and find a good little mare for her._ Remembering the recent admittance of a sturdy Pottok to the number, I felt a smile creep over my face. _It would be just the thing_.

Ever in silence, I lead her down the winding path that ended at the bank of the subterranean lake. Hearing her small gasp upon beholding the vast body of water, I turned. Marie surveyed her surroundings with those large grey eyes. _The beautiful eyes that I loved so dearly_. She then cast them back to me, still fearful, but also curious. The small boat, attached by an iron ring to the wharf as I had left it, sat in the black water, awaiting my return.

Maintaining my grip on her dainty palm, I placed my other hand on the small of her back, guiding her safely onto the cushions at the bow. There she sat as I leapt aboard, untying the rope, taking up the scull and propelled us forward into the darkness.

Working quickly, I never removed my eyes from her body. We were no longer upon the land; no one could recover her. For now, half way across the lake, we were within the inner most depths of my kingdom. I ruled everything past the water; everything upon and within were mine. _As was Marie_. But she was no hostage; she was my queen.

When the grate lifted was we entered the port, she put a hand to her mouth in surprise. Not abhorrent, but enchanted. I drove us to the shore, placing the pole aside and hopping out to offer her my hand, as any gentleman should. She seemed hesitant, which could only make sense, but soon accepted my offer. I pulled her to me, out of the vessel, never for a moment releasing her eyes.

I was suddenly terrified to speak. Would _she repulse me? Would she hate me?_ I ducked my head and shuddered, extending a hand towards the settee.

"Should you care to sit, my dear?"

A short pause.

"Yes, thank you."

_Ah! Her voice was a host of angels!_ She moved lightly and sat, her hands clasped primly in her lap. I stole a moment to collect myself, than went to stand before her. But I could not. I felt overcome, as I had in the wardrobe hall, by my love. _It was devouring me alive_. Sinking to a kneel, I raised my head in an attempt to regain dignity.

"I fear I do not entertain much," I whispered, "What may I do to accommodate you?"

_What did young ladies like? What could I give her? _

"A cup of tea, perhaps? Could a fix you a cup of tea?"

Marie smiled shyly.

"Yes, please. But-" _Were there conditions?_, "only if it's no trouble to you, sir."

I rose, so our faces were level.

"Nothing could be trouble for me, if you should desire it."

_Was I imagining it? Could it truly be? Did she blush at my words?_ Bowing, I kissed her little hand. _How long had I yearned to do so?_

"You needn't address my so formally, my child. I but a man, and an undeserving one."

She watched me with such curiosity, that I took leave, and scuttled away to the kitchen. Digging through the cabinets, I worried that all I had was my strong Russian tea. Such could hardly fit her pretty, girlish tastes. And so I sighed a great sigh of relief when I found a small tin of peppermint leaves. Upon further rummaging a jar of honey, near empty, was also found. I tasted it, as the water boiled, and was relieved to find to still good.

While the tea brewed, I opened a drawer for a spoon. In it was the said article, but also a small vial. My heart leapt. _Perhaps. Perhaps it would be best to use it… just this once. Just tonight_. I looked nervously over my shoulder. Of course, there was no one there.

I spooned the honey into the cup, then, with trembling fingers, I tipped a single drop from the bottle in as well. I hated drugging her so, but I feared I must.

Marie sat quietly, with her little feet tucked beneath her. I offered her the steaming cup. She took it, and I sat at a polite distant from her upon the sofa. There was a period of silence which I dared not to break. She studied me as I did her.

"Who are you?" She asked softly.

"I am no one," I sighed, "I am but a lonely creature of darkness."

This seemed to sadden her, for her sweet brow contracted piteously. _She was so good_. My statement did not, however, impede her, for I was to learn Marie de Voisins was a determined child, when she applied herself to be.

"Then what may I call you?"

The corner of my mouth twitched. _Clever girl_.

"If you wish, you may call me Erik."

Scooting towards me, she sought to examine me.

"Erik?"

"Yes, dear one."

She looked down at her cup.

"I am Marie."

"I know."

This seemed to ignite her inquisitiveness, but I could not answer how I knew her just now. Seeking a diversion, I noticed her tea nearly gone.

"Allow me to take that off your hands."

She smiled, _Oh, how I loved her!_, offered it. I left and put it away, leaning upon the counter for several minutes. When I returned, the contents of the vial had begun to take foot. Marie rested against the armrest, dozing. As tenderly as I could manage, I picked her off the settee, and carried her away. She shifted against me, eyes fluttering.

The Louis- Philippe room had gone unused for some time. Tonight, it would have an occupant. Noticing the dust that had settled in my absence, I frowned. _I should have to clean it soon._ I placed her upon the bed, plumping the pillows. When the blanket was pulled over her form, Marie stirred and opened her eyes sleepily.

"Sleep, little one." I whispered, soothing her curls with my fingers.

She nestled into the bed, obeying. Suddenly, she froze, raising her head, looking down at the blue silk that covered the cushion.

"It was you," she murmured, words fuzzy with tiredness.

Not understanding, I shushed her, and watched as she smiled softly and fell into a deep sleep. I sat at her bedside for hours, leaving only to return once again. A new page had been turned this evening, just two days before Christmas Eve. Perhaps God was offering me a new path. Perhaps I was no longer condemned to wander in winter.

* * *

I have this thing with putting the story title into the context of the story itself. I did it in Of the Wicca, this really crappy LoTR's fic I wrote years ago called "The Last of the Himlot", and I just did it again. Peter Jackson did that with Tolkien chapter names, for all you Rings geeks out there (ex: "A shortcut to what?" "Mushroom!"). REVIEWS! 


	11. Le Petit Elfe

Gerry's Girl- (On the honey) Allow me to defend myself; first, did they know **_in 1872_**, which is when this particular phic occurs, that honey doesn't spoil? That was my thought. Second, what if Erik just wanted some honey? I mean! Come on! ;D 

An Anti-Sheep Cheese Muffin- Yes, I would be pissed if he drugged me too…however, let's assume Marie DOESN'T KNOW he drugged her tea. She somehow managed to let someone pull her corset uber-tight with realizing, so, why not presume ignorance on her behalf this time as well? P.S. I love dissing my own characters.

MoonLiz- I solemnly swear never to repackage ALW lyrics and place them in this phic. I completely agree with you on this topic. Doing so is so hokey on so many levels of hokeidom. Original lyrics belong in songfics, and no where else, in my opinion. I'm glad there's someone out there who feels the same way!

Queen of Perfectionism- Ok, blush blush. Thank you kindly, my friend. More on the way!

Pax

* * *

It had been early in the morning when I had suddenly felt inspired to compose. Leaving Marie's side, for she still slept the sweet thing, I sat before the organ and rested my hands on the keys.

Before Christine, my fingers had often danced across the bands of white and black, music flaming and blazing from the mighty pipes overhead. Those had been the days of my purity, of sorts. Before I had been corrupted by the irresistible seduction of the female variety of my species. There had been desire within me for a woman before I came to L'Opera, but never the intoxicating ambiance of love and lust combined.

Nonetheless, today, the as I played, there was music. Not simply notes and noise, but music in its truest form. It captivated me, bewitching my senses. Shivers wracked my body; the air was close. My chest heaved; sound became sensation, and sensation engulfed me. As I pounded the finale out I rose to the pinnacle that such a musical experience always brought me to. _Where was the concluding chord? **Where**? God, help me to find it!_ There is was! _There it is! There!_

As the final tone echoed about the room, I fell forward, exhausted, resting my forehead against the keys. It had been long since I'd made such music. Reaching out a shaking hand, I seized a pen and wrote it down quickly. Then I leaned back in my seat, sighing. The flesh beneath my mask felt hot and moist with sweat. _Did I dare remove it, what with an angel just down the hall?_

I cast my vision to the closed door; behind it, she slept. My love. My Marie. _Should I eradicate the barrier between fantasy and reality, and she come upon me…_ I could not bear to think of the consequences. That is where I failed in my charming of Christine. My guard had been relaxed, even for the smallest fraction of time. But in that moment, she had seized my mask and beheld what she was never meant to see. _I must not make the same mistake again_. Often had those words run through my mind of late, but they had been directed at the wrong aspect of my relationship with Marie. For indeed, what harm could possibly come from my knowing her? A simple friendship; a lonesome crow comforted by a sweet sparrow. No ill could spring from such a connection.

With one more quick glance at the door, I doffed the subject of irritation and mopped my disfigured flesh with a handkerchief. Then I thrust the leather burden back in its accustomed place. Marie was none the wiser of my secret.

As it turned out, she would sleep for a good hour longer. The previous night had no doubt been trying upon her poor nerves, and so I used the offered time to think what I ought to do now that I had her here. I could not keep her forever, I acknowledged ruefully. She had friends who would notice her absence (_one of the Girys had no doubt already found her missing_)and, of course, there was her budding career to think of.

I reclined in my seat; not only a fine little dancer, but also a singer, or so I stated M. Amaud during his discourse with M. Garnier. I had heard all of what was said, for I did more than stalk pretty ballet girls. L'Opera was a business that needed to be run with efficiency, and so when such conferences concerning the operating of the theater took place, it can only make sense for me to be present. It was _my_ opera house, after all.

A smile began to curve my mouth. If she were to obtain a singing role, she would need practice. _And a teacher_. My heart started pounding, as it had done so regularly of late, and I began delve through the lofty piles of scores and drawings. Thinking back to the sound of her voice, I pondered her range. _Certainly not alto, no, much higher than that. Mezzo or soprano? _I found pieces suited for both sorts, and studied them.

It appeared I had unconsciously been listening for movement, for when I hear a stir within the Louis-Philippe room I leapt to my feet. _She was awake!_ Feeling overwhelmed with excitement and fear, I scrambled to find her a housecoat, for she could not walk about in her little nightdress and catch her death! A suitable article of blue-grey velvet was found and with it I hurried to her.

I knocked thrice upon the door, and then went in. Marie was still abed, though awake. She sat rubbing the sleep from her dear eyes, and upon my entrance looked up at me with such darling sleepiness that my knees felt weak.

"How was your sleep? Are you well rested?"

She nodded, then, appearing to think herself rude, said:

"Yes, thank you."

I held the robe out to her. She looked from it, then back to me, questioning.

"It is cold. I shouldn't want you to fall ill."

A feeling of apprehension had arisen within my mind; _surely, she must by now be wondering why I had stolen her away_. Placing the smooth velvet in her hands, I moved to the door.

"There is a bathroom just there," I pointed, "Should you want soap or a brush. Come to the dining room when you done. I will await you there."

Upon her arrival, I would be ready to explain.

* * *

When I awoke, I thought that last night must have been a most remarkable dream. The walk from the mirror to the lake, the little boat, the sitting room beneath L'Opera. It seemed amazingly far-fetched, but it had been magical. _Oh, so wonderfully delightful!_ But there was no trail behind my dressing room. No mysterious lake with its dinghy. No Erik. 

Then I opened my eyes, and was astonished. For I found myself somewhere quite foreign; a bedroom, decorated with all sorts of lovely things. It was a lady's room. No sooner had I sat, then there came three taps to my right. There stood a door, which opened. A masked man came over the threshold; _Erik!_ He asked how I'd slept, and I answered that I had very well, for I had. There seemed to be a gap in what I remembered of the previous night. He had taken away my tea cup, but there after I could not recall what had happened. _How had I come to sleep in this pretty bed chamber?_

Erik gave me a soft robe and told me to meet him in the dining room. I had seen no such room last night, but decided not to ask its whereabouts. _How hard could it be to find?_ The bathroom he spoke of was lovely, covered with a shiny, white stone. The water was warm, but I saw no flame. _This was a very strange house!_ I felt very refreshed after my washing, for it was not a commonplace thing for a ballet girl to clean herself with anything but what the icy well provided. There was also a little bottle of eau de toilette beside the sink, which I had, after carefully sniffing the contents, used a small amount of. I hoped Erik would not mind.

As instructed, I donned the robe and left the comfort of my temporary apartment and moved into the hall. There was a glow to my left, which I followed, not failing to notice the multitude of doors about me. _Such a large house couldn't have gone unobserved beneath L'Opera? Someone must have discovered it by now…._

The light was cast from a room which held a fine, wood table, set for one, and dozens flowers, all tied to their baskets with silk ribbons. Before I had but a moment to wonder were I ought to sit, Erik swept in through a door across from me.

"Please, sit." He said, bowing and reaching to pull out the chair facing the single place setting. When I did so, he moved swiftly away with my plate and returned after filling it at a small serving counter to my side. _He was **serving** me?_ Never had such an experience happened to me, and now that it did, I blushed.

"Eat, my dear." Was what he said. I looked down; the platter had been neatly arranged: two slices of toast with marmalade, a serving of cold chicken, and several pieces of some sort of sliced fruit. He had also placed a large cup in front of me which held café au lait. It was then that I realized that Erik sat quietly at the edge of table perpendicular to my own, watching me rather intently. I had not noticed him move.

"Are you not going to eat anything?" I asked, feeling embarrassed. It could hardly be proper to consume his food when he did not.

"I…I am not inclined to dine at present." He replied, shifting in his seat, "But pray, eat all you like. You must be starving."

I was. Terribly. My corset had been so incredibly tight last night I had harbored to appetite other than a cup of wine. _But still_… Simply because I wanted what lay before me did not make it right to take it. He was being very polite; I should have to follow convention. I sat back.

"No, thank you." I said, forcing my hands into my lap, away from the meal, "I am not very hungry."

He was silent for a beat, during which his eyes bore into my very soul. He had an exceptionally remarkable pair, a bright color that contained green, grey, and brown, all mixed together. I had seen the hue before (_Meg had called it 'hazel'_) but never in such a striking shade as I found in his face. The thought brought a warmth to my cheeks, and I endeavored to think of something else.

"If I breakfast as well," I was startled by his voice, "Will you eat?"

It seemed Erik had discovered me. I felt silly; averting my gaze, I nodded. And so I was surprised when he chuckled softly. He rose (_I had noticed last night that he was very tall, but when I sat he appeared_ _massive_) and fetched another plate, on which he put a small amount of chicken and some bread.

"Now eat, my dear." He commanded firmly, his voice powerful. I obeyed meekly, hardly daring to defy him again. The fruit particularly interested me. It was winter, after all; _where had he come by such crop_? My familiarity with the food was limited, if nonexistent. I knew that well-to-do ladies enjoyed them as sweet delicacies and that when a member of the corps had received a box of oranges from a Comte there had been pandemonium. Cutting a slice, I picked up the bit on my fork and smiled.

Once, long ago, the Sisters had rationed out a box of pears and given all the children a piece. It had been Christmas time, as it was now; some rich widow had delivered the carton that morning, so that we all might have a gift. I was young at the time, perhaps nine or ten years. I had sat by the frosted window, savoring my sliver of pear as long as I could. I remembered the taste to this day. Sweet and mellow in flavor, with a juicy, smooth texture. That had been my loneliest time; Abel was gone. The institution failed soon after, leaving me with no one. And so I had walked. Walked until I starved for food. Walked until there was nowhere left to walk…

I become conscious of Erik watching me. Indeed, I must have looked strange. Shaking my head, I strove to appear normal, putting my fork to my mouth and eating the morsel. It was a pear. I closed my eyes for a moment, relishing the essence of it against my tongue. It was delicious.

"Do you like pears?"

I nodded shyly. A saw something flicker within the pools of extraordinary color. We ate in silence for a period. The café au lait was delightful, and my pleasure was only increased by knowing I had an entire cupful to myself. I felt selfish to think so, but could not help it.

"Allow me to refill your cup, Marie."

Leaving me no time to answer, Erik whisked it away to the serving counter. I returned to my breakfast, figuring there was nothing to be done. Suddenly, I felt a small touch on my back; glancing to the side, I saw nothing. Erik was still standing a good distance away, and there was nothing else in the room. I turned back, feeling absurd. But then, after another moment, I felt it again, the tiniest of taps, this time hip. I jumped, seeking the source.

"Is something wrong, my dear?" Erik asked noticing my movement.

"No, no." I replied, touching my cheek, "I think my head is just a little sluggish."

"Then come," He said, taking my cup in one hand and gesturing with the other, "Let me escort you to the drawing room. You can finish your meal there."

I shook my hands.

"Oh no! Really, I'm quite well-"

"I insist. It's right this way."

Again, he used that tone; it was not dangerous or angry, but some resolute that I not but comply. When I reached for my plate, Erik placed a hand on the small of my back.

"I will carry it."

I nodded uneasily. I knew I had somehow fallen into the hands of a man of not just great kindness, but also great power and mind; and although I felt safe in the peculiar house, I felt there was a foreboding layer of ire and insanity lurking, in a mist, just above my head. Ready to descend at any moment, should the occasion provoke it.

Moving towards the door and past the counter, I saw a small tape measure lying upon it. I frowned; I did not remember it being there when I entered the room. Shrugging I moved on; I had not looked in that exact direction before. It had probably been there the whole time.

* * *

She slept now; I had sent her to bed when the timepiece upon the mantle struck eleven. The day had been eventful, and she would need rest. I, however, had several things to do. 

I had her measurements, having taken them during breakfast. Indeed, I had been so tempted by the prospect of touching her, I had allowed my hands to linger. She had felt me then, and had been confused. I berated myself on my infantile behavior, but could not say that I regretted it.

Into the dark streets I went, trembling with twisted desire_. She was so small_. The greatest breadth of her body was but eighty one centimeters (A/N that's 32 inches). What with her figure so narrow and her height so short, I could only wonder at her weight. It was an aspect of Marie which I found myself loving more and more as our acquaintance grew. In comparison, I was a sturdy giant. Christine had not been tall, but came at least to my eyes, with a full, shapely body. She had been the epitome of the Parisian woman.

_Marie though_…I shuddered again. She was so waiflike, so fragile. A smile twitched at my lips. _She was **elfin**_. That was the perfect adjective. For she _was_ an elf; a pale, ethereal creature who stole my heart away before I realized it.

I reached the tailor; it was late, but the proprietor of the shop never postponed an order of mine. I was one of his best customers, and certainly one of his richest. Reaching into my cloak, I smirked down at the list I conjured.

My little elf would find a gift waiting for her on tomorrow morn.

* * *

"I love elves. They rock. And not just because Legolas is an elf. Just because they rock." 

That is my poem of the day. I just wrote that. And just decided it was the poem of the day. Are you floored by my poetic genius?

R-E-V-I-E-W.


	12. Le Jugement d'un Chat

I'M SOOOOOOOOOOOOORRRRRRRRRRRY! Life is such a hectic stinker... I can't guarentee the next update will be soon... we'll have to see how things go...

I would like to say, while I can, that I love all my reviewers/readers. You make me so happy. Particular the ones for Wander in Winter (meaning you all). Care to know the reason? Well, I'll tell you: _you guys spell things correctly when you review!_ I have other stories on and though I adore my reader on them, I have trouble understanding their comments! I'm so uncool. I know none of the cool cyber-spellings... If I said I was "hip", anyone who knew me would go "Pssh... a hip that should be replaced!" sigh

Well, I'm gonna' pop-n-lock outta' here! Represent!

Pax (The Hippity-hop Cool-Cat)

**_

* * *

_**

**_Memoirs of M. Jean Garnier_**

_Friday, the Twenty-third of December_

Evening last's Noël Ball was a notable success. I have had much correspondence this morning in its particular regards and expect more, for the afternoon post has yet to arrive. It would seem that my speculation on the taste of current public was accurate.

There has also been much talk pertaining to the corps de ballet. Indeed I must, in the most humble of manners, admit that the group has been performing famously this season; I have yet to discern the reason behind this success, although I feel it in some part is due to the supervision of the ballet mistress, Mme. Giry. Although a widow and of a rather unsociable disposition, the woman has done a great deal for the ballet.

While upon the said topic of dancers, there has been much to-do in recent times about the young Mlle. de Voisins. Following _Le Lac de Cygne_ (which was, I might reiterate, hugely popular) she became something of a celebrity among the audience, particularly with the ladies. 'Twas this recognition that led me to personally provide her with an invitation to the ball. Quite outrageous, really; all this fuss over a ballet girl.

I must admit the arbre de Noël was all of Amaud's design; the man has quite the talent for such things. It was the high spot of the affair. The Vicomte de Levesque personally expressed to me his delight; Mlle. de Voisins, then on his arm (having just finished a waltz) reviewed the mighty tree as her partner and I had spoken, her eyes (very large, I then noticed) all but truly sparkling; I then understood her bewitching nature that had ensnared so many a gentleman that night. Her beauty was _bona fide_, and her innocence genuine. The mademoiselle was an actual Europa, an Isolde, a Helen.

But what a man the Vicomte is! A scoundrel and nothing more! 'Tis certainly most regrettable that a girl as genteel as Mlle. de Voisins should be hounded by such a cad. His previous associations are, of course, common knowledge; chiefly exploitation of chorus girls. I daresay he is quite famous for it. I cannot but rather wish he would not come into society, for he only makes others uncomfortable. However, I am resigned to ignore his rakish nature, for both the Comte and Comtess are valuable patrons to L'Opera

I must also make note that Albert Bonnay came to me this morning and spoke in regards to the disappearance of one of the new additions to the stables. Although it 'tis pity (costing nearly one thousand francs, which is not a great amount, but remains a loss) the other horses were not touched, and I believe the season will continue properly without the absent creature. The beast was, according to Bonnay, but a little Pottok pony, not a noteworthy bargain; it had come in a bundle purchase with a fine palomino. I suppose it will not be missed.

Thus I must conclude today's records.

_M. Jean Garnier_

* * *

It occurred to me that my dealings with young Mam'selle de Voisins had not been carried out with a great deal of proficiency. I'd managed to keep my composure for all of twenty minutes; the moment she stepped out of the boat I'd let down my guard. Not in regards to my secret (_as I'd come to call my hideousness of late_) for the mask had not been touched, excluding the brief moment following the writing of my newest piece. Instead I'd failed in my role of Angel. 

When I had first revealed myself to Christine (_it seems very long ago, now…_), I had been terrified. Never in my life had there been a creature--- _well, I suppose that is not entirely true, for upon my lap sits a lovely, cream and brown colored cat, purring as I stroke her head. It would be twaddle to suggest that she dislikes her master_--- never a **human**, then, who had accepted me. And so I maintained an air of menace, even as I groveled at her feet. I had not so with little Marie. There was a difference between the pair, subtle yet unquestionable. The Mlle. Daaé (_or perhaps **Mme. de Chagny** would now be more appropriate…_) was one who lived among the aristocracy ; though she was the daughter of a poor, dead musician, she was accustomed to fine life. She had a benefactor, one Mme. Valerius I understand, and a comfortable home to return to on Sundays and over holidays.

Marie was also an orphan, or so I had heard; a skinny, lonesome, naïve little urchin. And at the same time a charming, lovely, clever front row ballerina, a favorite of the audience and the ballet mistress herself. I smiled; _she was a true paradox_. Yet she was not refined as Christine was. Though her manners were near perfect, I noticed small infractions, nothing of huge importance (or even of any real significance) but they would have been met in public with frowns; she did not use the side of a spoon, which protocol demanded; when she finished her _café au lit_ in the morning, she did not place her spoon in the saucer, which would have indicated she wanted more. When we moved to the parlor, she was relatively quiet, thought society claimed young ladies must be cheerful and establish conversation. I also noticed when she became nervous or unsure her slim fingers went to her hair, tugging and twisting. It was all utter and complete lunacy, of course, for such things to be considered poor etiquette. Although I noticed, I hardly cared. In my own opinion she was the dearest of perfections.

My love for her had become overwhelming as of this morning, when I tested her vocal range.

_I sat at the piano, fingers resting on the keys. _

"_It would do best for you to stand, my dear," I said gravely, "unless it is too wearisome."_

_She shook her head, straightening her back and rising her chin. I withheld a smile._

"_I shall play a chord, and you will repeat it back, if you can. Do you understand?"_

_Again she bobbed her head, quietly clearing her throat. Sliding my hand down to the far left end of the keys, I struck a firm A3; Marie sang it back, a bit shaky. Was it too low? I moved higher, a C4. That one seemed easier, though still unstable. I should have to work on her lower range. It was the same with the shriller notes; she hit them (the majority of the time) but her voice was most clearly untrained. I decided she currently had a mezzo span, but with practice and frequent exercise of the vocal chords, my little elf could be a exceptional soprano soloist_

_I sat back; she shifted, appearing anxious. Did she think I would be angry?_

"_You do very well," some of the tension disappeared from her slender form, "but there is much you have yet to learn."_

"_Thank you. I want to learn. I love music." She said softly, bowing her head. _

_I watched her for a moment, my heart pounding strangely. My fingers contracted slightly on the smoothness of the keys, then relaxed as I calmed myself. A distraction. I needed a distraction._

"_What songs do you know?" I asked, attempted an air of professionalism._

_Her fingers went to a curl; my hands twitched._

"_I know Au Clair de la Lune, and __Noël Nouvelet, Noël Chantons Ici__ , and…and…" she paused, coiling the tendril, "Oh," her head lifted slightly, "I know La Chanson de Bijou."_

_My gaze flickered._

"_La Chanson de Bijou?" I asked quietly, eyebrow moving upward. The sweet creature looked pleased that I knew the title. She could have no idea that Faust was perhaps the only oeuvre that I never tired of. It was my favorite._

"_Yes." Marie seemed proud of her knowledge. Knowing such a lavish aria was no doubt something that would bring any chorus girl pride. I smiled, meeting her eyes._

"_Would you honor me with a recitation?"_

It was late in the evening now. The lesson had continued for a long period; her rendition of the famous Faust aria was delightful; I could tell that it had been taught to her when she was a child, for much of the notation had been altered to lower and simpler octaves. I rather liked this new version, although my original preference was unchanged. When I heard the first rasping note escape Marie's pretty lips, however, I had ended the sitting immediately. I would not allow her to strain her voice.

Following the completion of the musical session, I laid out some lunch for her. There was a brief protest on her behalf when I declared I never dined in the afternoon, but I soon persuaded her to eat without my doing so as well.

I sat at the piano for many hours composing, occasionally playing a small selection for Marie (_Mozart, Beethoven, pieces of that nature…_) who sat quietly on the settee before the fire. At some point or another, Ayesha entered the room; I noticed only when she rubbed against my legs, as I was much absorbed in my work. Marie started.

"Oh! A cat!"

She moved to the floor and extended a hand to the Persian. Ayesha took two elegant steps forwards, then sat, maintaining her distance, and watched Marie with her luminous, skeptical blue eyes, tail flicking back and forth.

"I should warn you, my dear," I said lightly, glancing across the room, "she is not a very polite hostess; she is not familiar with strangers."

Marie nodded, face loosing some of its gladness. For a moment I wished I had a more hospitable pet, but then remembered that I would not sacrifice my darling lady for anything.

"She has a lovely collar."

I smiled, returning to the keyboard.

"It is from the Shah of Persia's own treasury." A smirk curled my lips at the memory of how it had come into my possession.

"The _Shaw_?"

"The _king _of Persia, my dear."

Marie said a soft 'oh', and continued to watch Ayesha, who followed suit and gazed back with wary eyes. The girl put out a hand again in invitation, bidding the cat to sniff. The silky ears went back, fur raising upon her neck, but she did nothing more. I returned to my work, keeping a partial vigil on the situation behind me, for I wished neither party to become grieved; _I should hate to see those pretty white arms scratched_. Marie sighed when Ayesha made no move to except her offer, and rested back upon the settee.

* * *

Whence I next looked at the timepiece, it was after seven thirty in the evening. Rubbing tiredness from my face, I swiveled in my seat; Ayesha had not moved from her spot, and although she now lay on the carpet, her eyes still rested upon Marie. As for the latter, she had moved no more than the cat. She was asleep, head cushioned by her arm. I sat, as engrossed as my pet. 

Something about the scene produced a spark within me; Marie de Voisins slept on _my_ settee, in _my_ home, in _my_ opera house, wearing the gown _I_ had given her that very morning (_a fine empire style, made of cerulean satin as I'd planned that day in the wardrobe hall…_). Everything around her…everything about her current state all declared my possession over her. Everything about her declared that _she was mine_. I shuddered.

Ayesha purred softly when I rose; pausing I reached to stroke her head, then moved on. I have said before that Marie looks exquisite when she sleeps; it had never been more true than at that moment. I gently touched her cheek. It was warm and soft. Her eyelashes fluttered at my touch; she stirred, waking.

"Should you care for some supper?"

I asked quietly. Marie blinked drowsily--- my mind flashed back to the first morning as I'd watched her awaken--- then sat up.

"What time is it?" she asked in a fuzzy voice, seeking a clock.

"Nearly eight in the evening. Are you hungry?"

She shook her head; perhaps she had better go back to sleep. Then we could begin early.

"Come along. If you shan't eat, then it is to bed with you."

She did not take much persuading, trailing behind as I escorted her down the main hall. I could not help but wonder why she was so tired, but decided it was of little matter. After seeing her safely into the Louis-Philippe room, I returned to the piano. There would be no organ playing, not when Marie tried to sleep but one room over. But I could not continue to work. The afore mentioned spark was slowly but incontestably becoming a flame; I was catching light.

I fought for a time, gazing sightlessly forward at my current score. The page was stark white--- _her skin was white as snow_--- the bar lines harsh in their unforgiving, straight ranks--- _her lashes were black as an onyx cameo_--- each notation was jotted in red ink--- _her sweet mouth was red as blood_--- I could not escape from her. Marie filled my soul, intoxicated my mind. I groaned, clutching a hand to my face.

Turning, I searched for Ayesha, but the cat had left, no doubt off to do important, cattish things. There was nothing, then, to distract me. I had to go to her. I had to watch her, to smell her. I stood, even as I moved to her bedroom--- _when had it become hers?_--- realizing that my love was becoming obsession. I was drowning, and more than willing to do so; for when I stopped struggling, she was there.

The hall was dark; I had removed the lights so Marie could sleep untroubled. This did not thwart my vision, for much accustomed to the dark was I. The door was well oiled; I could enter soundlessly. The trouble of turning the knob was never an issue, for it was opened a crack to start--- I must have neglected to shut it firmly, my subconscious perhaps guessing my later return.

Her form was visible beneath the blankets; small, slim, appealing. _Mine_. After taking two more steps towards her, I betook another shape upon the bed, this one much more petite. I thought my eyes must be deceiving me. _Surely I must be wrong_…Yet, there it was; there _she_ was. My unreceptive, distrusting, visitor-loathing cat lay there, beside one delicate, pale hand, sleeping as soundly as her human counterpart.

I stared for a long time at the scene. A small part of my mind felt invidious; never before had Ayesha warmed to any other creature. Not Nadir. Not Christine. Not Jules. Only me. Now she went to another in lieu of myself. _Was the act not traitorous?_ The rest of my psyche was much more agreeable engaged. For what better a sign could I have been sent? It was true that Ayesha had remained frosty to my occasional guests, but now she, after the careful analysis performed in the parlor, came to become partial to Marie. _My most darling Marie. My love. My life. My always…_

Falling silently to my knees before the bed, I fixed my eyes on her sweet face. I trusted Ayesha's judgment unequivocally. Marie belonged here. She belonged with me.

* * *

Since the last time I did this in closing it was so well received, here we go again! It's time for **Pax's Poem of the Day** (it's a haiku this time!) 

I enjoy singing.

Except the really high notes.

They make my brain ouch.

Utter brillance, 'tis it not? By the way, I know "ouch" is generally not used in this context, but for the _sake of_ **_my art_**... forgive me...


	13. La Fille et le Fantôme

Sorry, sorry, sorry. I've done it again...

I have a good excuse this time: I was home quite literally _four days_ during July (first working at an over night camp then a trip to Jolly Ol' Italia) so I had no time to use the comp. I need to do some serious updating on my Van Helsing fic so it may be a while before the next chapter on this one... Sorry (again...)!

Deaths-Seduction: You are quite correct in saying that I misspelled "masquerade". In _English_. However, _en Français c'est "**mascarade**" écrite in French, it is spelled "mascarade"!_ And since I insist upon being a high-flown moron, that is how I spelled it. Ha. Haha. Ha.

One last note; I saw Tim Burton's _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory _last night and I'm inspired to write a fic. Would anyone be interested if I chose to follow through? Answers and ideas are more than welcome!

Have fun (This chapter will answer Queen of Perfectionism's question pertaining to Erik and Marie's relationship.** _Sort of_**...cackle )

Pax

* * *

I feel confident in saying that I have always been one who never hid from reality. If I had not entered the world with such a talent, I most certainly learned quickly. It would have been near impossible to do otherwise; every time I saw myself reflected I would have writhed and wept, filling my head with pleasant images of beauty and happiness to numb the pain. But actuality is something that can not be veiled; my mother rejected me, and I did not try to win her back. People cried out and crossed themselves at the sight of my face, and I did not try to change their opinions. Ballet rats whispered twisted fables about me, and I did not reprimand them. I am what I am, and I know that it can not be changed. 

It hurts, sometimes, to realize what must be. I made a fist and pressed it to my mouth, watching silently as my angel slept. Never once had I left her bedside since I had first arrived; it was now near four in the morning. Ayesha woke and moved to my lap, purring when my hand began to stroke her fur. I looked down at her fondly, then returned my eyes to Marie, a feeling of emptiness resonating through me. I did not often _hate_ the truth, but I did now. For two days I had broken my credo and denied reality, ignored what must eventually occur. My period of childishness had to end this morning, had to end _now_. I had known the truth all along. Marie must return.

* * *

I felt like I had spent entire days sleeping in the past week. Particularly since I came to Erik's strange house; once inside, I was either singing or resting (with the occasional meal in between). The feeling of having nothing especially important to do was a lovely one, I must admit.

There was a time in my life when rest had to be limited and quick. When I night fell I would stumble into a poorhouse if I was fortunate, or under a bush if I was not. Never did I think of it as a hard life; it was just _my _life. Abel had told me, when I was still quite young, that in times of hardship we must be strong and take what comes with grace. I had tried since that day to do as he said; _to keep his memory alive_.

I had struggled to keep aware as I leaned on the sofa; but Erik was a great musician and his music very soothing. I couldn't help it after a point, and eventually let myself drift off. I thought he might be angry when he woke me; instead he led me off to the snug bedroom. I felt guilty in realizing he might have spoken to me, for I never replied or even took notice of him speaking. _I shall apologize in the morning…._

But sleep did not immediately take me as I thought it might. I lay silently, thinking. _Did Meg know where I was?_ The thought brought sudden fear and unease. It had never truly been an issue if someone knew where I was; for years I had been my own mistress. _But things have changed_, I thought; _Now I have connections. Now I have people who care about my wellbeing._ I felt warm at the prospect. _Someone **cared** about me_.

Snuggling into my bed, my thoughts drifted to Erik. What was I to him? Why had he brought me to his curious home and sought to train my voice? What purpose would I serve him? Against my will, I thought again of his peculiar and beautiful eyes. They had enthralled me with their unusual and intensity, the way he looked at me. I did not fully understand his odd mannerisms; with others discovering the meaning behind an expression was quite simple for me, but it was not the same with Erik. He was a mystery to me, even now.

Particularly so concerning his mask. He had never once removed it in my presence. _Why?_ What did it hide, and why did he hide it? My mind had managed to create several wild, irrational explanations: he had an unsightly birthmark (or perhaps a wart), there was a scar spanning his right cheek (the result of a heroic knife fight with a hired gun, no doubt), he was a notorious criminal and wished to conceal his true identity. None of my stories made a scrap of sense, but I suppose it was just their formation that sated my curiosity I resolved, however, never to vex him with questions pertaining to the guise. I knew that if he wished to explain it, he would. I sighed, closing my eyes. _Everyone wears masks of one kind or another. Just because I can see Erik's does not make it right to talk of it._

I felt the earlier warmth spread to my face; it would be lying to say that it did not intrigue me slightly. That **_he_** did not intrigue me. His features were pale but strong, framed by jet black hair which contrasted sharply with the starkness of the mask. His clothes were very fine, and the body--- _warmness changed into a heat_--- the body beneath was tall, lean, and powerful. It was true that Erik intimidated me, but at the same time I always felt safe with him.

My cheeks seemed to be burning with color; I buried my face into the pillow. I was tired; it was my sleepiness that motivated such thoughts. And so, removing all contemplations of Erik from my mind, I sought, and found, a light sleep.

But something new came along to distract me. Through the haze of faint slumber, I felt it butting gently against my hand; soft and warm. Hardly daring to believe it, I opened one eye and spotted the handsome, cream-colored cat with the jeweled collar. Tentatively, I stroked her back; she mewed, nestling upon the blankets. I felt delirious with joy. She was such a fine creature! I smiled and continued to pet her delicately.

Through the darkness, I could see her massive blue eyes gazing placidly back at me as I began to drift. The sound of her low purr lulled me into sleep.

* * *

It was perhaps, a good thing that she was so tired when she awoke. Though there was no visual indication within the walls of my subterranean home, dawn was yet unbroken. The trip across the lake felt surreal; the still water, disturbed only where the boat glided, cast a strange bluish light. This was not an unusual thing, but today, as it played off the white of Marie's nightdress and the paleness of her skin, the light made her look mysterious, almost spectral. 

I shuddered, hating to think of her as dead. Yet with the chilling combination of her natural coloring, her attire, and the deep shadows about her eyes, the blue glow made her appear a ghost. Watching her closely, if not a bit fearfully, it became clear to me that she would not stay awake for the remainder of the voyage. I hardly cared, steadying the movement of the scull so we would glide more smoothly. In time, as I predicted, her long lashes brushed her cheeks (_the contrast between their respective shades is heightened in this light…I must remember the image to paint…_), head sinking to the side. Even as I silently admired her, an icy stab of fear pierced my chest. She looked lifeless. Utterly and completely. My eyes became frantic as they sought for the gentle rise and fall of her chest. _There it was. **She is well**. There is nothing to fear_.

I looked away from Marie, heart pattering strangely. If she was a spirit, what then was I? Was I no longer Erik, the Opera Ghost, or even the Phantom of the Opera, but Charon, rowing a poor lost soul across the river Styx to the world beyond? The thought chilled my heart. I never wanted Marie to fade, never wanted her to wilt. Never wanted her to die.

I felt cold. My deep and putrid obsession with death was beginning to ensnare her. _And why not?_ Half of my mind thought bitterly, _Every other person to come near me has suffered pain and loss. Why ought she be any different?_

_Because she is **different**_. The other half contended, _She was born to be with us, and we were born to find her._

The idea thrilled me; could it be that we were brought into this world to discover one another? Was that the reason I had been suffered nothing but rejection? Because my Angel was yet to come to me? The bow nudged the wharf upon the opposite bank, announcing our arrival. Scarcely noticing, I placed the scull aside and descended upon Marie. Still she slept; all the better. I lifted her out of the boat, moving to the path with her cradled in my arms. _She would meet the Pottok another day._

The way was uphill on this half of the journey, yet regardless of the fact that I carried a young woman, I had never felt stronger or more healthy. Marie awoke a fire within me, inducing a deep passion, but also vitality and even contentment. When she was near me I became a different person. No longer the skulking, brooding Opera Ghost or the vengeful magician; when I saw her soft curls and large, beautiful eyes, I converted into the creature I ought to have been, and would have been if not for my face. I became a man in love.

I never wanted the passage to end. Allowing my legs to find their own way, I fixed my gaze upon her. _My little love_. Unconscious in her sleep, she nuzzled into my chest, one hand gripping my lapel. A small, silent gasp bubbled in my throat. I reminded myself, through my suddenly foggy mind, that she knew not what she did. But I was a man possessed. Her touch intoxicated me. Staring down at her face, the uncertainty that had been seething within my mind vanished, and a decision was made. Stopping in my trek, I carefully bent my head and placed a soft kiss upon her cheek.

Emotion hit me like a steam engine. Her flesh felt like nothing I'd ever known against my mouth. Tears blurred my vision as I pulled away. I'd kissed another but once. Christine Daaé, moments before she left me forever, had leaned forward and allowed me to touch my lips to her forehead. The contact had been brief, but heavenly. She had been my living bride in those wondrous few seconds. That had been, in a way, a farewell gesture; we both knew, at that time, that she would leave.

Marie would never leave me. _I would not allow it_. A smile, both jovial and twisted curled my face as I moved on. As the end approached, I sited several more kisses upon her face, savoring the warmth and softness of her skin. _Mine_. Upon reaching the mirror, I paused. It was not too late to turn back. It was not too late to bring Marie back to my lair and never let her leave. But I knew that she did not deserve such a verdict thrust upon her. Marie de Voisins would determine her own future. _For now_.

And so through the hidden door I went, to the récamier. As gently as I could, I placed her delicate body down and pulled the eiderdown beneath her chin. Straightening, I looked about the room. There were obvious signs of a search; the bureau stood open, the drawers on the vanity and bed cupboard drawn out. The Girys, no doubt, had noticed Marie's absence. I sighed, gazing back down at her sweet, placid face. _They will be glad to know she is safe._

But the time had come for me to leave. Daylight would soon come. Pressing my lips once more to her forehead, savoring the taste and texture, I drew back and whispered:

"Farewell, my angel."

Feeling exceedingly hollow, I left her room behind me. When would we meet again? I did not know the answer. All I knew was that we would be reunited. _It was our destiny_.

* * *

Yes! MORE SCHIZO ERIK! Hooray! 

"_Everything in this room is eatable. Even I'm eatable. But that is called cannibalism, my dear children, and is in fact frowned upon in most societies._ " - Willy Wonka Johnny Depp


End file.
